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SHRINE  OF  ST.  PATRICK’S  BELL 


A BALLAD  HISTORY 
OF  IRELAND 


ARRANGED  AND  ANNOTATED 
BY 

REV.  JOHN  MACHALE 


1906 


UNIVERSE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
CLEVELAND 


®OSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


TR.8  8 fcO 


LIST  OF  BALLADS 


Erin Dr.  Drennan 

The  Celts T.  D.  M’Gee 

Song  of  Innisfail T.  Moore 

Peccatum  Peccavit Aubrey  De  Vere 

Deirdre’s  Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnacfi 

Samuel  Ferguson 

The  Death  of  King  Connor  Mac  Nessa. . .Sullivan 
The  Burial  of  King  Cormac.  . . .Samuel  Ferguson 

The  Expedition  and  Death  of  King  Dathy 

James  C.  Mangan 

A Legend  of  St.  Patrick T.  D.  M’Gee 

St.  Patrick  and  the  Bard Aubrey  De  Vere 

The  Pillar  Towers  of  Ireland.  . . .D.  F.  McCarthy 

St.  Brigid  of  the  Legends Aubrey  De  Vere 

St.  Brigid  of  the  Convents Aubrey  De  Vere 

St.  Columbkille’s  Farewell  to  the  Isle  of  Arran, 

on  Setting  Sail  for  Iona Aubrey  De  Vere 

Prince  Alfrid’s  Itinerary  Through  Ireland 

James  C.  Mangan 

The  “Wisdom-Sellers”  Before  Charlemagne 

T.  D.  M’Gee 

.King  Brian  Before  the  Battle Wm.  Kenealy 

War  Song T.  Moore 

The  Geraldines Thomas  Davis 

Statute  of  Kilkenny Aubrey  De  Vere 

Battle  of  Credan Edward  Walsh 

The  Battle  of  Lough  Swilly .Anon 

Holy  Cross  Abbey D.  Simmons 

The  Life  and  Death  of  Art  Mac  Murrogh 

William  P.  Mulchinock 

The  Siege  of  Maynooth James  C.  Mangan 

The  O’Neill Anon 

The  Battle  of  Beal-an-Atha-Buidh.  ..Dr.  Drennan 


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LIST  OF  BALLADS 


The  Muster  of  the  North C.  Gavan  Duffy 

Lament  for  the  Death  of  Eoghan  Ruadh  O’Neill 

Thomas  Davis 

The  Battle  of  the  Boyne Colonel  Blacker 

The  Battle  of  Limerick Thomas  Davis 

A Ballad  of  Sarsfield Aubrey  De  Vere 

The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick R.  D.  Joyce 

A Ballad  of  Athlone Aubrey  De  Vere 

The  Treaty  Stone  of  Limerick Anon 

A Song  of  the  Brigade Aubrey  De  Vere 

The  Wild  Geese Dr.  Drennan 

Lament  Over  the  Ruins  of  the  Abbey  Timoleague 

Samuel  Ferguson 

The  Penal  Time John  O’Hagan 

The  Four  Masters T.  D.  M’Gee 

The  Irish  Rapparees C.  G.  Duffy 

The  Surprise  of  Cremona Thomas  Davis 

Fontenoy Thomas  Davis 

The  Dungannon  Convention Thomas  Davis 

The  Volunteers Anon 

Rory  of  the  Hills Charles  Kickham 

The  Croppy  Boy Carroll  Malone 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead J.  K.  Ingram 

Emmet’s  Death Anon 

She  is  Far  From  the  Land Thomas  Moore 

Lament  for  Grattan Thomas  Moore 

Darrynane D.  F.  McCarthy 

Thomas  Davis Samuel  Ferguson 

Father  Mathew ‘ Anon 

The  Famine  Year Lady  Wilde 

The  Celtic  Tongue Rev.  M.  Mullen 

The  Irish  Emigrant’s  Mother.  . . .D.  F.  McCarthy 

The  Soggarth  Aroon John  Banim 

The  Old  Church  at  Lismore.  . .Ellen  M.  Downing 
The  Ancient  Race Rev,  M,  F.  Tormey 


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FOREWORD 


It  seems  to  be  a truism  that  people  of  Irish  race  and 
name  should  have  a sympathy  with  and  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  history  of  their  ancestral  land — of  its 
glories  and  joys  and  sorrows:  and  I put  forth  this 
unpretentious  little  book  in  the  hope  that  it  may  stimu- 
late an  interest  in  a history  which  is  well  worth  know- 
ing. Besides,  the  ballads  being  all  of  good  literary 
quality,  and  suitable  therefore  for  reading  and  declama- 
tion exercises,  even  apart  from  their  historical  worth, 
are  calculated  to  help  in  the  formation  of  a literary 
style  and  the  cultivation  of  a literary  taste. 

I might  easily  have  made  the  book  much  larger  than 
it  is;  but  I have  striven  purposely  to  keep.it  within  a 
fixed  limit.  As  to  the  selection  of  ballads,  I have 
chosen  those  which  most  appealed  to  myself  from  the 
material  at  my  disposal. 

This  little  book  makes  no  pretension  to  be  in  any 
strict  sense  a history  of  Ireland.  It  is  simply  a pre- 
sentation in  poetical  form  of  some  main  incidents  of 
Irish  history  arranged  in  chronological  sequence.  But 
I think  it  is  perhaps  the  best  way  to  impress  upon 
youthful  minds  the  main  features  of  a history  which 
in  detail  has  always  appeared  to  me  difficult;  perhaps 
because  when  I first  began  to  make  its  acquaintance, 
the  text-book  that  was  put  into  my  hands  was  over- 
crowded with  names  and  incidents.  That  seems  to 


be  a defect  of  most  so-called  popular  histories  of  Ire- 
land ; the  one  exception  being  Sullivan's  Story  of  Ire- 
land, which  is  written  in  a fascinating  style.  Although 
it  touches  only  the  main  points,  it  extends  to  some 
600  solid  pages,  which  in  itself  is  enough  to  deter  a 
timid  reader  from  undertaking  its  perusal.  It  seems 
to  me  that  a well-written  ballad  giving  a vivid  de- 
scription of  some  thrilling  incident  impresses  itself 
upon  the  mind  much  as  a picture  does ; and  as  anyone 
studying,  say,  the  pictorial  representation  of  the  Sta- 
tions of  the  Cross  cannot  help  realizing  the  sufferings 
of  Our  Lord  in  His  Passion  and  Death,  or  any  one 
studying,  say,  the  famous  series  of  the  French  artist 
Le  Sueur  on  the  life  of  St.  Bruno  cannot  help  being 
familiar  with  the  main  features  of  that  holy  man's  life; 
so  any  one  reading  carefully  these  ballad  poems,  can- 
not but  have  a good  general  idea  of  the  course  of  Irish 
history. 


John  Mac  Hale. 


A Ballad  History  of  Ireland 

We  are  told  in  the  history  of  ancient  Greece  that  the 
Spartans,  being  at  war  with  the  Messenians  and  not 
having  of  their  own  a capable  general,  asked  the 
Athenians  to  lend  them  the  services  of  a commander. 
The  Athenians  agreed  to  help  them,  but  to  the  great 
disgust  of  the  Spartans  sent  a lame  poet  named 
Tyrtaeus.  He,  however,  by  his  battle  songs  so  aroused 
the  martial  ardour  of  his  soldiers  that  they  carried  all 
before  them.  And  indeed,  from  the  rude  war  song  of 
the  savage  to  the  most  perfect  of  national  anthems, 
there  is  something  in  song  that  goes  down  to  the  very 
depths  of  our  nature  and  stirs  up  the  most  ardent  en- 
thusiasm. If  you  have  ever  heard  the  Marseillaise,  or 
the  Wacht  am  Rhein,  or  the  Rantz  des  Vaches,  or  God 
Save  Ireland,  or  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  sung  by  a 
multitude  to  whom  the  sentiment  appealed,  you  can 
realize  the  wonderful  power  of  music  and  song  over 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  men. 

The  canny  old  Scotchman,  Fletcher,  of  Saltoun,  knew 
this  truth  so  well  that  he  gave  utterance  to  the  aphor- 
ism : “Give  me  the  making  of  a nation's  songs  and  I 
care  not  who  makes  her  laws." 

If  every  nation  has  its  bards  and  chroniclers,  there 
is  no  nation  in  which  the  bard  held  higher  place  than 
Ireland,  and  in  which  the  tones  of  the  harp  and  the 
fiery  words  of  song  narrated  the  great  doings  of  the 
past  and  spurred  men  on  to  emulate  the  glorious  deeds 
of  their  ancestry.  The  bard,  after  the  chieftain,  was 


6 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


held  in  highest  esteem ; the  Arch-bard  Dubtach  was  the 
most  influential  convert  of  St.  Patrick  at  Tara;  and 
when  in  after  days  the  bardic  order  had  fallen  into  dis- 
repute and  was  about  to  be  disbanded  forever,  St. 
Columba,  of  Iona,  who  was  a poet  himself,  was  so  per- 
suaded of  its  usefulness  that  he  pleaded  successfully  at 
the  Synod  of  Drumceat  for  its  preservation.  When  the 
Anglo-Normans,  who  invaded  Ireland  under  Earl 
Strongbow  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II.,  of  England,  be- 
came in  time  more  Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves,  each 
great  chieftain  had  his  bard  as  in  the  olden  times ; and 
when  all  that  was  Irish  was  banned  by  penal  laws,  still 
the  wandering  poet  or  harper  was  a most  welcome 
visitor  to  the  impoverished  homes  of  gentle  and  simple. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  when  the  era  of  penal  law  was 
passing  away  the  sweet  voice  of  the  singer  was  again 
everywhere  heard,  oftentimes  in  the  grand  old  tongue 
of  the  Celt,  but  still  more  frequently  in  the  tongue  of 
the  stranger  which,  during  the  centuries  of  conflict,  had 
fastened  itself  upon  Erin  for  weal  or  for  woe. 

The  history  of  Ireland  is  a wonderful  blending  of 
lights  and  shadows,  of  glories  and  sorrows,  of  battles 
lost  and  battles  won,  of  great  works  achieved  and  great 
afflictions  borne  for  God,  for  country  and  for  fellow 
men.  Not  a phase  of  this  history  but  has  been  lov- 
ingly depicted  by  the  modern  bard;  and  the  object  of 
this  ballad  history  is  to  stimulate  interest  in  the  his- 
tory of  what  for  many  of  us  is  our  ancestral  land,  by 
putting  before  us  in  ringing  verse  a glowing  picture 
of  many  chief  events  of  by-gone  days  in  a fairly 
chronological  order,  and  so  giving  in  a most  pleasing 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


7 


way  a good  idea  of  the  course  of  Irish  history.  I may 
add  that  by  a ballad  I mean  a short  narrative  poem 
made  to  be  either  recited  or  sung. 


And,  first,  as  to  the  geographical  position  of  Ireland, 
you  all  know  that  it  lies  to  the  west  of  Great  Britain, 
on  the  highway  from  Europe  to  America.  It  is  a very 
beautiful  island  with  glorious  hills  and  delightful  val- 
leys, and  owing  to  the  constant  moisture  the  grass  of 
Ireland  is  always  so  green  that  the  country  is  fre- 
quently and  very  justly  called  the  Emerald  Island.  It 
lies  between  51  and  56  degrees  north  latitude,  and  5 and 
1 1 degrees  west  longitude,  and  comprises  about  32,500 
square  miles.  Heremon,  who  was  the  high  king  and 
ruled  from  Tara  in  Meath,  divided  the  rest  of  Ireland 
into  Ulster  in  the  north,  Connaught  in  the  west,  Mun- 
ster in  the  south  and  Leinster  in  the  east,  and  appointed 
kings  for  each  province. 

ERIN. 

When  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood, 
God  bless'd  the  green  island,  and  saw  it  was  good ; 
The  em’rald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone, 

In  the  ring  of  the  world,  the  most  precious  stone. 

In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blest, 

With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West 
Erin  stands  proudly  insular,  on  her  steep  shore, 

And  strikes  her  high  harp  'mid  the  ocean's  deep  roar, 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to  weep, 
The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the  deep ; 

At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from  her  eyes, 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom  rise. 


8 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


O ! sons  of  green  Erin,  lament  o’er  the  time, 

When  religion  was  war,  and  our  country  a crime, 
When  man,  in  God’s  image,  inverted  his  plan, 

And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man. 

When  the  int’rest  of  state  wrought  the  general  woe, 
The  stranger  a friend,  and  the  native  a foe ; 

While  the  mother  rejoic’d  o’er  her  children  oppressed, 
And  clasp’d  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast. 
When  with  pale  for  the  body  and  pale  for  the  soul, 
Church  and  state  joined  in  compact  to  conquer  the 
whole ; 

And  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian  blood 
Ey’d  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it  was  good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefather’s  grave, 
*"  For  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the  slave, 
Drive  the  Demon  of  Bigotry  home  to  his  den, 

And  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Erin  make  men. 
Let  my  sons  like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock  unite, 

A partition  of  sects  from  one  foot-stalk  of  right, 

Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky, 

Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas ! for  poor  Erin  that  some  are  still  seen, 

Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to 
green ; 

Yet,  oh!  when  you’re  up  and  they’re  down,  let  them 
live, 

Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would  not  give. 
Arm  of  Erin  be  strong ! but  be  gentle  as  brave ! 

And  uplifted  to  strike,  be  still  ready  to  save! 

Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  of,  or  men  of,  the  Emerald  Isle. 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true, 

And  the  green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and  Blue ! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


9 


And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall  share, 
With  the  full  swelling  chest,  and  the  fair  flowing  hair. 
Their  bosom  heaves  high  for  the  worthy  and  brave; 
But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  soft-swelling  wave ; 
Men  of  Erin ! awake,  and  make  haste  to  the  blest, 

Rise — Arch  of  the  Ocean,  and  Queen  of  the  West! 

— Dr.  Drennan. 


There  is  much  of  fanciful  legend  mixed  up  with  the 
story  of  the  original  settlement  of  Ireland,  although 
there  is  no  nation  of  modern  times  whose  authentic 
records  reach  so  far  back  into  the  past.  Partholanians, 
Nemedians,  Firbolgs,  Tuatha-de-Danaans  and  Mile- 
sians are  said  to  have  contributed  in  succession  to  the 
population  of  Ireland.  The  people  of  Ireland  are  in 
the  main  of  Celtic  blood,  akin  to  the  French,  Spaniards, 
Welsh  and  Scotch.  They  are  called  Milesians  from 
Milesius,  supposed  to  have  been  king  of  a portion  of 
the  present  Spain,  whose  wife,  Queen  Scota,  came  to 
Ireland  with  her  sons,  the  chief  of  whom  were  Heber, 
Heremon  and  Amergin,  who  was  a poet.  The  Celts 
and  their  advent  to  Ireland  are  thus  described: 

THE  CELTS. 

Long,  long  ago,  beyond  the  misty  space 
Of  twice  a thousand  years, 

In  Erin  old,  there  dwelt  a mighty  race, 

Taller  than  Roman  spears; 

Like  oaks  and  towers  they  had  a giant  grace, 

Were  fleet  as  deers, 

With  winds  and  waves  they  made  their  ’biding  place, 
These  western  shepherd  seers. 


10  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Their  Ocean-God  was  Man-a-nan,  M’lir, 

Whose  angry  lips, 

In  their  white  foam,  full  often  would  inter 
Whole  fleets  of  ships ; 

Cromah,  their  Day-God,  and  their  Thunderer 
Made  morning  and  eclipse ; 

Bride  was  their  queen  of  song,  and  unto  her 
They  prayed  with  fire-touched  lips. 

Great  were  their  deeds,  their  passions,  and  their 
sports : 

With  clay  and  stone 

They  piled  on  strath  and  shore  those  mystic  forts, 
Not  yet  o’erthrown ; 

On  cairn-crown’d  hills  they  held  their  council-courts ; 
While  youths  alone, 

With  giant  dogs,  explored  the  elk  resorts, 

And  brought  them  down. 

Of  these  was  Fin,  the  father  of  the  Bard, 

Whose  ancient  song 

Over  the  clamour  of  all  change  is  heard, 
Sweet-voic’d  and  strong. 

Fin  once  o’ertook  Grania  the  golden-hair ’d, 

The  fleet  and  young; 

From  her  the  lovely,  and  from  him  the  fear’d, 

The  primal  poet  sprung. 

Ossian,  two  thousand  years  of  mist  and  change 
Surround  thy  name — 

Thy  Fenian  heroes  now  no  longer  range 
The  hills  of  fame. 

The  very  name  of  Fin  and  Gaul  sound  strange— 
Yet  thine  the  same — 

By  miscalled  lake  and  desecrated  grange — 

Remains,  and  shall  remain. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  n 


The  Druid’s  altar  and  the  Druid’s  creed 
We  scarce  can  trace. 

There  is  not  left  an  undisputed  deed 
Of  all  your  race. 

Save  your  majestic  song,  which  hath  their  speed, 
And  strength  and  grace ; 

In  that  sole  song,  they  live  and  love,  and  bleed — 
It  bears  them  on  thro’  space. 

Oh,  inspired  giant ; shall  we  e’er  behold, 

In  our  time, 

One  fit  to  speak  your  spirit  on  the  wold, 

Or  seize  your  rhyme  ? 

One  pupil  of  the  past,  as  mighty  soul’d 
As  in  the  prime, 

Were  the  fond,  fair,  and  beautiful,  and  bold — 
They,  of  your  song  sublime! 

— r.  D.  M’Gee . 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL. 

They  came  from  a land  beyond  the  sea, 

And  now  o’er  the  western  main 
Set  sail,  in  their  good  ships,  gallantly, 

From  the  sunny  land  of  Spain. 

“Oh,  where’s  the  Isle  we’ve  seen  in  dreams. 
Our  destin’d  home  or  grave?” 

Thus  sung  they  as,  by  the  morning’s  beams, 
They  swept  the  Atlantic  wave. 

And,  lo,  where  afar  o’er  ocean  shines 
A sparkle  of  radiant  green, 

As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines, 
Whose  light  through  the  wave  was  seen, 

“ ’Tis  Innisfail — ’tis  Innisfail !” 

Rings  o’er  the  echoing  sea; 


12 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OB  IRELAND 


While  bending  to  heaven  the  warriors  hail 
That  home  of  the  brave  and  free. 

Then  turn’d  they  unto  the  Eastern  wave, 
Where  now  their  Day-God’s  eye 
A look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 
As  light’d  up  sea  and  sky, 

Nor  frown  was  seen  through  sky  or  sea, 

Nor  tear  o’er  leaf  or  sod, 

When  first  on  their  Isle  of  Destiny 
Our  great  forefathers  trod. 

— T.  Moore. 


As  Romulus  and  Remus  quarreled  fatally  over  the 
founding  of  Rome,  so  did  the  sons  of  Scota  over  the 
division  of  Ireland.  Heber  fell  in  battle,  slain  by  the 
sword  of  Heremon. 

PECCATUM  PECCAVIT. 

Where  is  thy  brother  ? Heremon,  speak ! 

Heber,  the  son  of  Milesius,  where? 

The  orphans’  wail  and  their  mother’s  shriek 
Forever  they  ring  upon  Banba’s  * air ! 

And  whose,  oh,  whose  was  the  sword,  Heremon, 
That  smote  Amergin,  thy  brother  and  bard? 
’Twas  the  Fate  of  thy  house  or  a mocking  Demon 
That  raised  thy  hand  o’er  his  forehead  scarr’d ! 

Woe,  woe  to  Banba!  That  blood  of  brothers 
Wells  up  from  her  bosom  renew’d  each  year; 
’Twas  hers  the  shriek — that  desolate  mother’s: — 
’Twas  Banba  wept  o’er  that  first  red  bier! 

The  priest  has  warn’d,  and  the  bard  lamented : 

But  warning  and  wailing  her  sons  despised ; 

The  head  was  sage,  and  the  heart  half-sainted ; 

But  the  sword-hand  was  evermore  unbaptized ! 

— Aubrey  De  V ere. 


* Name  for  Ireland. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  13 


Connor  Mac  Nessa,  a scion  of  Milesian  stock,  ruled 
over  the  kingdom  of  Ulster  in  the  days  of  our  Blessed 
Lord.  He  is  celebrated  in  Irish  history  for  his  con- 
nection with  the  sad  fate  of  the  children  of  Usnach, 
which  is  the  theme  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  and 
saddest  of  Irish  legends.  A beautiful  girl,  named 
Deirdre,  whose  birth,  it  was  said,  portended  great  in- 
jury to  Ulster,  was  kept  in  strict  seclusion  by  King 
Connor,  who  intended  her  as  his  own  bride.  The  first 
man  she  ever  saw  was  a noble  and  handsome  youth 
named  Naisi.  Love,  ill-fated,  sprang  up  between  them. 
With  his  two  brothers  they  fled  to  Scotland  and  were 
happy  for  a time,  but  were  lured  back  to  Ireland  by 
King  Connor  and  Naisi  and  his  brothers  were  foully 
murdered  by  the  forces  of  the  King  after  a heroic  de- 
fence by  their  friends.  The  following  ballad  is  the 
lament  of  the  widowed  Deirdre  for  her  husband  and 
his  brothers,  the  ill-fated  sons  of  Usnach  : 

DEIRDRE’S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SONS  OF 
USNACH. 

The  lions  of  the  hill  are  gone 
And  I am  left  alone — alone; 

Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 

For  I am  sick,  and  fain  would  sleep ! 

The  falcons  of  the  wood  are  flown, 

And  I am  left  alone: — alone ; 

Dig  the  grave  both  deep  and  wide, 

And  let  us  slumber  side  by  side. 

The  dragons  of  the  rock  are  sleeping, 

Sleep  that  wakes  not  for  our  weeping; 


14  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Dig  the  grave,  and  make  it  ready; 

Lay  me  on  my  true  love’s  body. 

Lay  their  spears  and  bucklers  bright 
By  the  warriors’  sides  aright; 

Many  a day  the  three  before  me 
On  their  linked  bucklers  bore  me. 

Lay  upon  the  low  grave  floor, 

’Neath  each  head,  the  blue  claymore; 
Many  a time  the  noble  three 
Redden’d  these  blue  blades  for  me. 

Lay  the  collars,  as  is  meet, 

Of  their  greyhounds  at  their  feet ; 

Many  a time  for  me  have  they 
Brought  the  tall  red  deer  to  bay. 

In  the  falcon’s  jesses  throw 
Hook  and  arrow,  line  and  bow ; 

Never  again  by  stream  or  plain 
Shall  the  gentle  woodsmen  go. 

Sweet  companions  ye  were  ever — 

Harsh  to  me,  your  sister,  never ; 

Woods  and  wilds  and  misty  valleys 
Were,  with  you,  as  good’s  a palace. 

Oh ! to  hear  my  true  love  singing, 

Sweet  as  sound  of  trumpets  ringing; 

Like  the  sway  of  ocean  swelling 
Roll’d  his  deep  voice  round  our  dwelling. 

Oh ! to  hear  the  echoes  pealing 
Round  our  green  and  fairy  sheeling, 
When  the  three,  with  soaring  chorus, 
Pass’d  the  silent  skylark  o’er  us. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  15 


Echo,  now  sleep,  morn  and  even — 

Lark  alone  enchant  the  heaven! — 

Ardan's  lips  are  scant  of  breath, 

Neesa's  tongue  is  cold  in  death. 

Stag,  exult  on  glen  and  mountain — 

Salmon,  leap  from  loch  to  fountain — 

Heron,  in  the  free  air  warm  ye — 

Usnach's  sons  no  more  will  harm  ye ! 

Erin's  stay  no  more  you  are, 

Rulers  of  the  ridge  of  war ; 

Never  more  'twill  be  your  fate 
To  keep  the  beam  of  battle  straight! 

Woe  to  me ! by  fraud  and  wrong, 

Traitors  false  and  tyrants  strong, 

Fell  Clan  Usnach,  bought  and  sold, 

For  Barach's  feast  and  Connor's  gold. 

Woe  to  Eman,  roof  and  wall ! — 

Woe  to  Red  Branch,  hearth  and  hall ! — 

Tenfold  woe  and  black  dishonor 
To  the  foul  and  false  Clan  Connor! 

Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 

Sick  I am,  and  fain  would  sleep ! 

Dig  the  grave  and  make  it  ready, 

Lay  me  on  my  true  love's  body. 

— Samuel  Ferguson. 


But  Connor  Mac  Nessa  has  a better  fame,  which  is 
also  the  subject  of  one  of  the  old  Irish  bardic  legends. 
On  the  day  of  the  Crucifixion  of  Our  Lord,  the  awful 
darkness,  the  disturbance  of  the  elements,  the  walking 


16  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


of  the  dead,  were  not  confined  to  Jerusalem.  Accord- 
ing to  the  legend,  Ireland  had  similar  conditions  and 
King  Connor  was  seriously  disturbed.  He  consulted 
his  Druid  as  to  the  reason  and  he  was  told  of  the  life 
and  death  of  our  Saviour.  Connor  was  so  angry  at 
the  ingratitude  and  perversity  of  the  Jews  that  he 
worked  himself  into  a frenzy;  the  excitement  forced 
the  brain-ball  that  for  years  had  been  lodged  in  his 
head  from  its  place  and  Connor  fell  down  to  die.  The 
following  ballad  by  T.  D.  Sullivan  tells  the  thrilling 
tale : 

THE  DEATH  OF  KING  CONNOR  MAC  NESSA. 

’Twas  a day  full  of  sorrow  for  Ulster  when  Connor 
Mac  Nessa  went  forth 

To  punish  the  clansmen  of  Connaught  who  dared  to 
take  spoil  from  the  North; 

For  his  men  brought  him  back  from  the  battle  scarce 
better  than  one  that  was  dead, 

With  the  brain-ball  of  Mesgedra  buried  two-thirds  of 
its  depth  in  his  head. 

His  royal  physician  bent  o’er  him,  great  Fingen  who 
often  before 

Staunched  the  war-battered  bodies  of  heroes  and  built 
them  for  battle  once  more, 

And  he  looked  at  the  wound  of  the  monarch,  and 
heark’d  to  his  low-breathed  sighs, 

And  he  said,  “In  the  day  when  that  missile  is  loosed 
from  his  forehead  he  dies. 

“Yet  long  midst  the  people  who  love  him  King  Connor 
Mac  Nessa  may  reign, 

If  always  the  high  pulse  of  passion  be  kept  from  his 
heart  and  his  brain ; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  17 

And  for  this  I lay  down  his  restrictions : no  more  from 
this  day  shall  his  place 

Be  with  armies,  in  battles,  or  hostings,  or  leading  the 
van  of  the  chase ; 

At  night,  when  the  banquet  is  flashing,  his  measure  of 
wine  must  be  small, 

And  take  care  that  the  bright  eyes  of  woman  be  kept 
from  his  sight  above  all ; 

For  if  heart-thrilling  joyance  or  anger  awhile  o’er  his 
being  have  power, 

The  ball  will  start  forth  from  his  forehead,  and  surely 
he  dies  in  that  hour.” 

O ! woe  for  the  valiant  King  Connor,  struck  down 
from  the  summit  of  life. 

While  glory  unclouded  shone  round  him,  and  regal 
enjoyment  was  rife — 

Shut  out  from  his  toils  and  his  duties,  condemned  to 
ignoble  repose, 

No  longer  to  friends  a true  helper,  no  longer  a scourge 
to  his  foes ! 

He,  the  strong-handed  smiter  of  champions,  the  piercer 
of  armor  and  shields. 

The  foremost  in  earth-shaking  onsets,  the  last  out  of 
blood-sodden  fields — 

The  mildest,  the  kindest,  the  gayest,  when  revels  ran 
high  in  his  hall — 

Oh,  well  might  his  true-hearted  people  feel  gloomy 
and  sad  for  his  fall! 

The  princes,  the  chieftains,  the  nobles,  who  met  to 
consult  at  his  board. 

Whispered  low  when  their  talk  was  of  combats,  and 
wielding  the  spear  and  the  sword; 

The  bards  from  their  harps  feared  to  waken  the  full- 
pealing  sweetness  of  song, 


18  BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND 


To  give  homage  to  valor  or  beauty,  or  praise  to  the 
wise  and  the  strong; 

The  flash  of  no  joy-giving  story  made  cheers  or  gay 
laughter  resound, 

Amidst  silence  constrained  and  unwonted  the  seldom- 
filled  wine  cup  went  round; 

And,  sadder  to  all  who  remembered  the  glories  and 
joys  that  had  been, 

x he  heart-swaying  presence  of  women  not  once  shed 
its  light  on  the  scene. 

He  knew  it,  he  felt  it,  and  sorrow  sunk  daily  more  deep 
in  his  heart; 

He  wearied  of  doleful  inaction,  from  all  his  loved  labors 
apart. 

He  sat  at  his  door  in  the  sunlight,  sore  grieving  and 
weeping  to  see 

The  life  and  the  motion  around  him,  and  nothing  so 
stricken  as  he. 

Above  him  the  eagle  went  wheeling,  before  him  the 
deer  galloped  by, 

And  the  quick-legged  rabbits  went  skipping  from  green 
glades  and  burrows  a-nigh. 

The  song-birds  sang  out  from  the  copses,  the  bees 
passed  on  musical  wing, 

And  all  things  were  happy  and  busy,  save  Connor 
Mac  Nessa  the  King! 

So  years  passed  over,  when,  sitting  midst  silence  like 
that  of  a tomb, 

A terror  crept  through  him  as  sudden  the  moonlight 
was  blackened  with  gloom. 

One  red  flare  of  lightning  blazed  brightly,  illuming  the 
landscape  around, 

One  thunder  peal  roared  through  the  mountains,  and 
rumbled  and  crashed  underground; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  19 


He  heard  the  rocks  bursting-  asunder,  the  trees  tearing 
up  by  the  roots, 

And  loud  through  the  horrid  confusion  the  howling  of 
terrified  brutes, 

From  the  halls  of  his  tottering  palace  came  screamings 
of  terror  and  pain, 

And  he  saw  crowding  thickly  around  him  the  ghosts 
of  the  foes  he  had  slain ! 

And  as  soon  as  the  sudden  commotion  that  shuddered 
through  nature  had  ceased. 

The  king  sent  for  Barach,  his  druid,  and  said:  “Tell 
me,  truly,  O priest, 

What  magical  arts  have  created  this  scene  of  wild 
horror  and  dread? 

What  has  blotted  the  blue  sky  above  us,  and  shaken 
the  earth  that  we  tread? 

Are  the  gods  that  we  worship  offended  ? what  crime  or 
what  wrong  has  been  done? 

Has  the  fault  been  committed  in  Erin,  and  how  may 
their  favor  be  won? 

What  rites  may  avail  to  appease  them?  what  gifts  on 
their  altars  should  smoke? 

Only  say,  and  the  offering  demanded  we  lay  by  your 
consecrate  oak!” 

“O  King,”  said  the  white-bearded  druid,  “the  truth 
unto  me  has  been  shown. 

There  lives  but  one  God,  the  Eternal ; far  up  in  high 
Heaven  is  His  throne. 

He  looked  upon  men  with  compassion,  and  sent  from 
His  kingdom  of  light. 

His  son,  in  the  shape  of  a mortal,  to  teach  them  and 
guide  them  aright. 

Near  the  time  of  your  birth,  O King  Connor,  the  Sav- 
iour of  mankind  was  born, 


20  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  since  then  in  a kingdom  far  eastward  He  taught, 
toiled  and  prayed,  till  this  morn, 

Then  wicked  men  seized  Him,  fast  bound  Him  with 
nails  to  a cross,  lanced  His  side. 

And  that  moment  of  gloom  and  confusion  was  earth’s 
cry  of  dread  when  He  died. 

“O  King,  He  was  gracious  and  gentle,  His  heart  was 
all  pity  and  love, 

And  for  men  He  was  ever  beseeching  the  grace  oc 
His  Father  above; 

He  helped  them,  He  healed  them,  He  blessed  them, 
He  labored  that  all  might  attain 

To  the  true  God’s  high  kingdom  of  glory,  where  never 
comes  sorrow  or  pain ; 

But  they  rose  in  their  pride  and  their  folly,  their  hearts 
filled  with  merciless  rage, 

That  only  the  sight  of  His  life-blood  fast  poured  from 
His  heart  coyld  assuage ; 

Yet  while  on  the  cross-beam  uplifted,  His  body  racked, 
tortured,  and  riven. 

He  prayed — not  for  justice  or  vengeance,  but  asked 
that  His  foes  be  forgiven.” 

With  a bound  from  his  seat  rose  King  Connor,  the  red 
flush  of  rage  on  his  face. 

Fast  he  ran  through  the  hall  for  his  weapons,  and 
snatching  his  sword  from  its  place, 

He  rushed  to  the  woods,  striking  wildly  at  boughs  that 
dropped  down  with  each  blow. 

And  he  cried : “Were  I midst  the  vile  rabble,  I’d  cleave 
them  to  earth  even  so ! 

With  the  strokes  of  a high  king  of  Erin,  the  swirls 
of  my  keen-tempered  sword, 

I would  save  from  their  horrible  fury  that  mild  and 
that  merciful  Lord!” 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  21 


His  frame  shook  and  heaved  with  emotion ; the  brain- 
ball  leaped  forth  from  his  head, 

And  commending  his  soul  to  that  Saviour,  King  Con- 
nor Mac  Nessa  fell  dead. 

— T.  D.  Sullivan . 


Perhaps  the  most  famous  of  the  Milesian  Kings  was 
Cormac  Mac  Art — warrior,  law-giver  and  scholar. 
Living  in  the  third  century  of  our  era,  he  had,  it  is 
said,  learned  something  of  Christian  faith,  and  when 
dying  gave  orders  that  he  should  not  be  buried  with 
his  pagan  ancestors  and  with  pagan  rites  in  the  old 
graveyard  at  Brugh,  but  at  a place  called  Ross-na-ree. 
His  will  was  carried  out  by  a wonderful  interposition 
of  Providence,  despite  the  efforts  of  chieftains  and 
clansmen  to  the  contrary. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  KING  CORMAC. 

“Crom  Cruach  and  his  sub-gods  twelve/' 

Said  Cormac,  “are  but  carven  treene ; 

The  axe  that  made  them,  haft  or  helve, 

Had  worthier  of  our  worship  been. 

“But  he  who  made  the  tree  to  grow, 

And  hid  in  earth  the  iron-stone, 

And  made  the  man  with  mind  to  know 
The  axe's  use,  is  God  alone." 

Anon  to  priests  of  Crom  was  brought — 

Where,  girded  in  their  service  dread, 

They  minister'd  on  red  Moy  Slaught — 

Word  of  the  words  King  Cormac  said. 


22  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


They  loosed  their  curse  against  the  king ; 

They  cursed  him  in  his  flesh  and  bones ; 

And  daily  in  their  mystic  ring 

They  turn’d  the  maledictive  stones. 

Till,  where  at  meat  the  monarch  sate, 

Amid  the  revel  and  the  wine, 

He  choked  upon  the  food  he  ate, 

At  Sletty,  southward  of  the  Boyne. 

High  vaunted  then  the  priestly  throng, 

And  far  and  wide  they  noised  abroad 

With  trump  and  loud  liturgic  song 
The  praise  of  their  avenging  God. 

But  ere  the  voice  was  wholly  spent 
That  priest  and  prince  should  still  obey, 

To  awed  attendants  o’er  him  bent 

Great  Cormac  gather’d  breath  to  say, — 

“Spread  not  the  beds  of  Brugh  for  me — 
When  restless  death-bed’s  use  is  done ; 

But  bury  me  at  Ross-na-ree 
And  face  me  to  the  rising  sun. 

“For  all  the  kings  who  lie  in  Brugh 
Put  trust  in  gods  of  wood  and  stone ; 

And  ’twas  at  Ross  that  first  I knew 
One,  Unseen,  who  is  God  alone. 

“His  glory  lightens  from  the  east; 

His  message  soon  shall  reach  our  shore ; 

And  idol-god,  and  cursing  priest 

Shall  plague  us  from  Moy  Slaught  no  more.” 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  23 


Dead  Cormac  on  his  bier  they  laid:  — 
“He  reigned  a king  for  forty  years, 
And  shame  it  were,”  his  captains  said, 
“He  lay  not  with  his  royal  peers. 


“His  grandsire,  Hundred-Battle,  sleeps 
Serene  in  Brugh ; and,  all  around, 

Dead  kings  in  stone  sepulchral  keeps 
Protect  the  sacred  burial-ground. 

“What  though  a dying  man  should  rave 
Of  changes  o'er  the  eastern  sea? 

In  Brugh  of  Boyne  shall  be  his  grave, 

And  not  in  noteless  Ross-na-ree.” 

Then  northward  forth  they  bore  the  bier, 

And  down  from  Sletty  side  they  drew, 

With  horseman  and  with  charioteer, 

To  cross  the  fords  of  Boyne  to  Brugh. 

There  came  a breath  of  finer  air 

That  touched  the  Boyne  with  ruffling  winds, 

It  stirr’d  him  in  his  sedgy  lair 

And  in  his  mossy  moorland  springs. 

And  as  the  burial  train  came  down 

With  dirge  and  savage  dolorous  shows, 

Across  their  pathway,  broad  and  brown 
The  deep,  full-hearted  river  rose; 

From  bank  to  bank  through  all  his  fords, 

'Neath  blackening  squalls  he  s well'd  and  boiled; 

And  thrice  the  wondering  gentile  lords 
Essay'd  to  cross,  and  thrice  recoil'd. 


24  BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND 


Then  forth  stepp’d  gray-hair’d  warriors  four: 
They  said,  “Through  angrier  floods  than  these, 
On  linked  shields  once  our  king  we  bore 
From  Dread-Spear  and  the  hosts  of  Deece.” 

“And  long  as  loyal  will  holds  good, 

And  limbs  respond  with  helpful  thews, 

Nor  flood,  nor  fiend  within  the  flood, 

Shall  bar  him  of  his  burial  dues.” 

With  slanted  necks  they  stoop’d  to  lift ; 

They  heaved  him  up  to  neck  and  chin ; 

And,  pair  and  pair,  with  footsteps  swift, 

Lock’d  arm  and  shoulder,  bore  him  in. 

’Twas  brave  to  see  them  leave  the  shore; 

To  mark  the  deep’ning  surges  rise, 

And  fall  subdued  in  foam  before 
The  tension  of  their  striding  thighs. 


’Twas  brave,  when  now  a spear-cast  out, 
Breast-high  the  battling  surges  ran; 

For  weight  was  great,  and  limbs  were  stout, 
And  loyal  man  put  trust  in  man. 

But  ere  they  reach’d  the  middle  deep, 

Nor  steadying  weight  of  clay  they  bore, 

Nor  strain  of  sinewy  limbs  could  keep 
Their  feet  beneath  the  swerving  four. 

And  now  they  slide  and  now  they  swim, 

And  now,  amid  the  blackening  squall, 

Gray  locks  afloat,  with  clutchings  grim, 
They  plunge  around  the  floating  pall. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  25 


While,  as  a youth  with  practised  spear 

Through  jostling  crowds  bears  off  the  ring, 

Boyne  from  their  shoulders  caught  the  bier 
And  proudly  bore  away  the  king. 

At  morning,  on  the  grassy  marge 
Of  Ross-na-ree,  the  corpse  was  found, 

And  shepherds  at  their  early  charge 
Entomb’d  it  in  the  peaceful  ground. 

A tranquil  spot;  a hopeful  sound 

Comes  from  the  ever-youthful  stream, 

And  still  on  daisied  mead  and  mound 
The  dawn  delays  with  tenderer  beam. 

Round  Cormac  Spring  renews  her  buds ; 

In  march  perpetual  by  his  side, 

Down  come  the  earth-fresh  April  floods, 

And  up  the  sea-fresh  salmon  glide; 

And  life  and  time  rejoicing  run 

From  age  to  age  their  wonted  way; 

But  still  he  waits  the  risen  Sun, 

For  still  ’tis  only  dawning  Day. 

— Samuel  Ferguson. 


The  warrior  Kings  of  Ireland  were  not  always  satis- 
fied with  the  opportunities  for  the  exercise  of  valor  or 
heroism  that  fell  to  them  within  the  compass  of  Ire- 
land. Many  a raid  did  they  make  into  neighboring 
countries,  penetrating  even  through  Gaul  to  Switzer- 
land and  Italy  in  search  of  adventure  and  plunder.  The 
last  King  of  Pagan  Ireland  was  Dathy,  who,  with  his 


26  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


army,  penetrated  as  far  as  the  Alps  and  was  there 
killed  by  a lightning  flash  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  428. 

THE  EXPEDITION  AND  DEATH  OF  KING 
DATHY. 

(from  the:  irish.) 

King  Dathy  assembled  his  Druids  and  sages, 

And  thus  he  spake  them — “Druids  and  sages! 

What  of  King  Dathy  ? 

What  is  revealed  in  Destiny’s  pages 
Of  him  or  his?  Hath  he 
Aught  for  the  Future  to  dread  or  to  dree? 

Good  to  rejoice  in,  or  evil  to  flee? 

Is  he  the  foe  of  the  Gall — 

Fitted  to  conquer,  or  fated  to  fall?” 

And  Beirdra,  the  Druid,  made  answer  as  thus : — 

A priest  of  a hundred  years  was  he — 

“Dathy ! thy  fate  is  not  hidden  from  us ! 

Hear  it  through  me! 

Thou  shalt  work  thine  own  will ! 

Thou  shalt  slay — thou  shalt  prey — 

And  be  conqueror  still ! 

“Thee  the  earth  shall  not  harm ! 

Thee  we  charter  and  charm 
From  all  evil  and  ill! 

Thee  the  laurel  shall  crown ! 

Thee  the  wave  shall  not  drown! 

Thee  the  chain  shall  not  bind ! 

Thee  the  spear  shall  not  find ! 

Thee  the  sword  shall  not  slay ! 

Thee  the  shaft  shall  not  pierce!  V 

Thou,  therefore,  be  fearless  and  fierce, 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 

BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 

And  sail  with  thy  warriors  away 
To  the  lands  of  the  Gall, 

There  to  slaughter  and  sway, 

And  be  -victor  o'er  all !” 

So  Dathy  he  sailed  away,  away, 

Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 

Sailed  with  his  hosts  in  armour  grey 
Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 

Many  a night  and  many  a day, 

And  many  an  islet  conquered  he — 

He  and  his  hosts  in  armour  grey. 

And  the  billow  drowned  him  not. 

And  the  blue  spear  found  him  not, 

And  a fetter  bound  him  not, 

And  the  red  sword  slew  him  not, 

And  the  swift  shaft"  knew  him  not, 

And  the  foe  o’erthrew  him  not. 

Till  one  bright  morn,  at  the  base 

Of  the  Alps,  in  rich  Ausonia’s  regions, 

His  men  stood  marshalled  face  to  face 
With  the  mighty  Roman  legions. 

Noble  foes! 

Christian  and  Heathen  stood  there  among  those, 
Resolute  all  to  overcome. 

Or  die  for  the  Eagles  of  Ancient  Rome ! 

When  behold!  from  a temple  anear 
Came  forth  an  aged  priest-like  man, 

Of  a countenance  meek  and  clear. 

Who,  turning  to  Eire’s  Ceann, 

Spake  him  as  thus,  “King  Dathy ! hear ! 

Thee  would  I warn ! 

Retreat!  retire!  repent  in  time 
The  invader’s  crime. 

Or  better  for  thee  thou  hadst  never  been  born !” 


28  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


But  Dathy  replied,  “False  Nazarene! 

Dost  thou,  then,  menace  Dathy,  thou? 

And  dreamest  thou  that  he  will  bow 
To  one  unknown,  to  one  so  mean, 

So  powerless  as  a priest  must  be? 

He  scorns  alike  thy  threats  and  thee! 

On ! on ! my  men,  to  victory !” 

And,  with  loud  shouts  for  Eire's  King, 

The  Irish  rush  to  meet  the  foe, 

And  falchions  clash  and  bucklers  ring, — 

When,  lo ! 

Lo,  a mighty  earthquake’s  shock! 

And  the  cleft  plains  reel  and  rock ; 

Clouds  of  darkness  pall  the  skies ; 

Thunder  clashes, 

Lightning  flashes. 

And  in  an  instant  Dathy  lies 

On  the  earth  a mass  of  blackened  ashes ! 

Then  mournfully,  and  dolefully, 

The  Irish  warriors  sailed  away 
Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 

Till,  wearily  and  mournfully, 

They  anchored  in  Eblana’s  Bay. 

Thus  the  Seanachies  and  Sages 
Tell  this  tale  of  long-gone  ages. 

— James  Clarence  Mangan.  - 


The  Irish  historian,  Haverty,  tells  us  that  it  was  in 
such  a descent,  by  probably  the  last  of  Dathy’s  pre- 
decessors, Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  upon  Armoric 
Gaul,  that  “the  blessed  youth,  Patrick,  son  of  Calphurn, 
was,  together  with  his  sisters,  Darerca  and  Lupita,  first 
carried  among  other  captives  to  Ireland.”  Sold  as  a 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  29 


slave  to  Milcho,  he  spent  seven  years  as  a herdsman  in 
Antrim.  Returning'  to  Gaul  he  fitted  himself  for  the 
sacred  ministry  and  then  received  from  Pope  Celestine 
a commission  to  return  and  preach  the  faith  to  the 
Irish.  His  success  was  marvelous,  miraculous ; the 
entire  nation  was  converted  and  became  a model  of 
sanctity  and  a school  of  learning.  The  years  of  his 
bondage,  his  escape  and  his  clerical  training  form  the 
subject  of  a ballad  by  T.  D.  Magee,  and  his  meeting 
with  King  Laeghaire  and  his  nobles  at  Tara  and  the 
inception  of  his  work  as  Ireland’s  Apostle  are  described 
by  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

A LEGEND  OF  ST.  PATRICK. 

Seven  weary  years  in  bondage  the  young  Saint  Patrick 
pass’d, 

Till  the  sudden  hope  came  to  him  to  break  his  bonds 
at  last; 

On  the  Antrim  hills  reposing  with  the  North  star 
overhead 

As  the  grey  dawn  was  disclosing,  “I  trust  in  God,” 
he  said — 

“My  sheep  will  find  a shepherd  and  my  master  find  a 
slave, 

But  my  mother  has  no  other  hope  but  me  this  side 
the  grave.” 

Then  girding  close  his  mantle,  and  grasping  fast  his 
wand, 

He  sought  the  open  ocean  through  by-ways  of  the  land. 
The  berries  from  the  hedges  on  his  solitary  way, 

And  the  cresses  from  the  waters  were  his  only  food 
by  day. 


3o  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


The  cold  stone  was  his  pillow,  and  the  hard  heath  was 
his  bed, 

Till  looking  from  Benbulben,  he  saw  the  sea  outspread. 


He  saw  that  ancient  Ocean,  unfathomed  and  unbound, 
That  breaks  on  Erin’s  beaches  with  so  sorrowful  a 
sound. 

There  lay  a ship  at  Sligo  bound  up  the  Median  sea, 
‘‘God  save  you,  master  mariner,  will  you  give  berth 
to  me? 

I have  no  gold  to  pay  thee,  but  Christ  will  pay  thee  yet.” 
Loud  laughed  that  foolish  mariner,  “Nay,  Nay,  He 
might  forget!” 


“Forget!  oh,  not  a favor  done  to  the  humblest  one 

Of  all  his  human  kindred,  can  ’scape  th’  Eternal  Son !” 

In  vain  the  Christian  pleaded,  the  willing  sail  was 
spread, 

His  voice  no  more  was  heeded  than  the  seabirds  over- 
head— 

And  as  the  vision  faded,  the  ship  against  the  sky, 

On  the  briny  rocks  the  captive  prayed  to  God  to  let 
him  die. 

/ 

But  God,  whose  ear  is  open  to  catch  the  sparrow’s  fall, 

At  the  sobbing  of  his  servant  frowned  along  the  waters 
all — 

The  billows  rose  in  wonder  and  smote  the  churlish 
crew, 

And  around  the  ship  the  thunder  like  battle-arrows 
flew ; 

The  screaming  sea-fowl’s  clangor,  in  Kish-corran’s  in- 
ner caves, 

Was  hushed  before  the  anger  of  the  tempest-trodden 
waves. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND  31 


Like  an  eagle-hunted  gannet,  the  ship  drove  back 
amain, 

To  where  the  Christian  captive  sat  in  solitude  and 
pain — 

“Come  in,”  they  cried,  “oh  Christian,  we  need  your 
company, 

For  it  was  sure  your  angry  God  that  met  us  out  at  sea.” 

Then  smiled  the  gentle  heavens,  and  doffed  their  sable 
veil, 

Then  sank  to  rest  the  breakers  and  died  away  the  gale. 

So  sitting  by  the  Pilot  the  happy  captive  kept 

On  his  rosary  a reckoning,  while  the  seamen  sung  or 
slept. 

Before  the  winds  propitious  past  Achill,  south  by  Ara, 

The  good  ship  gliding  left  behind  Hiar-Connaught  like 
an  arrow — 

From  the  southern  brow  of  Erin  they  shoot  the  shore 
of  Gaul, 

And  in  holy  Tours,  Saint  Patrick  findeth  freedom, 
friends,  and  all. 

In  holy  Tours  he  findeth  home  and  altars,  friends  and 
all; 

There  matins  hail  the  morning,  sweet  bells  to  vespers 
call ; 

There’s  no  lord  to  make  him  tremble,  no  magician  to 
endure, 

Nor  need  he  to  dissemble  in  the  pious  streets  of  Tours ; 

But  ever,  as  he  rises  with  the  morning’s  early  light, 

And  still  erewhile  he  sleepeth,  when  the  north  star 
shines  at  night ; 

When  he  sees  the  angry  Ocean  by  the  tyrant  tempest 
trod, 

He  murmurs  in  devotion — “Fear  nothing!  Trust  to 
God !” 


— r.  D.  M’Gee. 


32  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 
ST.  PATRICK  AND  THE  BARD.  * 


The  land  is  sad,  and  dark  our  days ; 

Sing  us  a song  of  the  days  that  were : 

Then  sang  the  bard  in  his  Order’s  praise 

This  song  of  the  chief  bard  of  King  Laeghaire, 

The  King  is  wroth  with  a greater  wrath 

Than  the  wrath  of  Nial  or  the  wrath  of  Conn; 
From  his  heart  to  his  brow  the  blood  makes  path, 
And  hangs  there,  a red  cloud,  beneath  his  crown. 

Is  there  any  who  knows  not,  from  south  to  north, 
That  Laeghaire  tomorrow  his  birthday  keeps? 

No  fire  may  be  lit  upon  hill  or  hearth 

Till  the  King’s  strong  fire  in  its  kingly  mirth 
Leaps  upward  from  Tara’s  palace  steeps! 

Yet  Patrick  has  lighted  his  paschal  fire 
At  Slane, — it  is  Holy  Saturday, — 

And  bless’d  his  font  ’mid  the  chanting  choir ! 

From  hill  to  hill  the  flame  makes  way ; 

While  the  King  looks  on  it,  his  eyes  with  ire 
Flash  red,  like  Mars,  under  tresses  gray. 

The  great  King’s  captains  with  drawn  swords  rose ; 

To  avenge  their  Lord  and  the  state  they  swore; 
The  Druids  rose  and  their  garments  tore; 

“The  strangers  to  us  and  our  gods  are  foes !” 
Then  the  King  to  Patrick  a herald  sent, 

Who  said,  “Come  up  at  noon,  and  show 
Who  lit  thy  fire,  and  with  what  intent? 

These  things  the  great  King  Laeghaire  would 
know. 

* A.  D.  433. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  33 


But  Laeghaire  conceal'd  twelve  men  in  the  way, 
Who  swore  by  the  sun  the  saint  to  slay. 

When  the  waters  of  Boyne  began  to  bask, 

And  the  fields  to  flash,  in  the  rising  sun, 

The  Apostle  Evangelist  kept  his  Pasch, 

And  Erin  her  grace  baptismal  won ; 

Her  birthday  it  was ; — his  font  the  rock, 

He  bless'd  the  land,  and  he  bless'd  his  flock. 

Then  forth  to  Tara  he  fared  full  lowly; 

The  Staff  of  Jesus  was  in  his  hand; 

Eight  priests  paced  after  him  chanting  slowly, 
Printing  their  steps  on  the  dewy  land ; 

It  was  the  Resurrection  morn ; 

The  lark  sang  loud  o'er  the  springing  corn ; 

The  dove  was  heard,  and  the  hunter's  horn. 

The  murderers  stood  close  by  on  the  way ; 

Yet  they  saw  nought  save  the  lambs  at  play. 

A trouble  lurk'd  in  the  King’s  strong  eye 

When  the  guests  that  he  counted  for  dead  drew  nigh. 

He  sat  in  state  at  his  palace  gate ; 

His  chiefs  and  his  nobles  were  ranged  around; 
The  Druids  like  ravens  smelt  some  far  fate; 

Their  eyes  were  gloomily  bent  on  the  ground. 
Then  spake  Laeghaire:  “He  comes — beware! 

Let  none  salute  him,  or  rise  from  his  chair !" 

Like  some  still  vision  men  see  by  night, 

Mitred,  with  eyes  of  serene  command, 

Saint  Patrick  moved  onward  in  ghostly  white ; 

The  staff  of  Jesus  was  in  his  hand. 

His  priests  paced  after  him  unafraid, 

And  the  boy,  Benignus,  more  like  a maid, 

Like  a maid  just  wedded  he  walk'd  and  smiled, 

To  Christ  new-plighted,  that  priestly  child. 


34  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


They  enter'd  the  circle;  their  hymn  they  ceased; 

The  Druids  their  eyes  bent  earthward  still ; 

On  Patrick's  brow  the  glory  increased, 

As  a sunrise  brightening  some  breathless  hill. 
The  warriors  sat  silent;  strange  awe  they  felt; — 
The  chief  bard,  Dubtach,  * rose  up  and  knelt ! 

Then  Patrick  discoursed  of  the  things  to  be 
When  time  gives  way  to  eternity, 

Of  kingdoms  that  cease,  which  are  dreams  not  things. 
And  the  Kingdom  built  by  the  King  of  kings. 

Of  Him  he  spake  who  reigns  from  the  Cross; 

Of  the  death  which  is  life,  and  the  life  which  is 
loss  ; 

And  how  all  things  were  made  by  the  Infant  Lord, 
And  the  small  hand  the  Magian  kings  adored. 

His  voice  sounded  on  like  a throbbing  flood 
That  swells  all  night  from  some  far-off  wood, 
And  when  it  was  ended— that  wondrous  strain — 
Invisible  myriads  breathed  low,  “Amen!” 

While  he  spake,  men  say  that  the  refluent  tide 
On  the  shore  beside  Colpa  ceased  to  sink ; 

And  they  said  the  white  deer  by  Mulla's  side 

O'er  the  green  marge  bending  forebore  to  drink; 
That  the  Brandon  eagle  forgot  to  soar ; 

That  no  leaf  stirr'd  in  the  wood  by  Lee. — 

Such  stupor  hung  the  island  o'er, 

For  none  might  guess  when  the  end  would  be. 

Then  whisper'd  the  King  to  a chief  close  by, 

“It  were  better  for  me  to  believe  than  die!” 

Yet  the  King  believed  not;  but  ordinance  gave 
That  whoso  would  might  believe  that  word ; 

So  the  meek  believed,  and  the  wise,  and  brave, 

And  Mary's  Son  as  their  God  adored. 

* Pronounced  Duach. 


m 


A PILLAR  TOWER— BELL-HOUSE  OF  ARDMORE 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  35 


Ethnea  and  Fethlimea,  his  daughters  twain, 

That  day  were  in  baptism  born  again ; 

And  the  Druids,  because  they  could  answer  nought, 
Bow’d  down  to  the  faith  the  stranger  brought. 

That  day  upon  Erin  God  pour’d  His  spirit — 

Yet  none  like  the  chief  of  the  bards  had  merit, 

Dubtach! — He  rose  and  believed  the  first, 

Ere  the  great  light  yet  on  the  rest  had  burst. 

It  was  thus  that  Erin,  then  blind  but  strong, 

To  Christ  through  her  chief  bard  paid  homage  due ; 

And  this  was  a sign  that  in  Erin  song 

Should  from  first  to  last  to  the  cross  be  true. 

— Aubrey  de  Vere . 


Everywhere  that  St.  Patrick  went  on  his  missionary 
tour  through  Ireland  he  caused  churches  to  be  erected. 
The  remains  of  many  of  them  are  visible  to  this  day, 
silent  witnesses  of  the  conversion  of  Ireland  to  the 
faith  of  Jesus  Christ.  Attached  to  many  of  these 
churches  are  Round  Towers — about  seventy  in  all — 
conspicuous  at  once  by  their  shape  and  their  wonder- 
ful preservation.  They  are  a standing  puzzle  to  anti- 
quarians, but  owing  to  their  invariable  proximity  to 
ruined  fanes  it  seems  certain  that  they  were  used,  if 
not  built,  in  some  way  for  ecclesiatical  purposes.  At 
any  rate  they  are  a perennial  monument  to  the  skill 
of  their  builders  and  they  come  down  to  us  at  least 
from  the  earliest  Christian  ages. 

THE  PILLAR  TOWERS  OF  IRELAND. 

The  pillar  towers  of  Ireland,  how  wonderful  they  stand 
By  the  lakes  and  rushing  rivers  through  the  valleys 
of  our  land; 


36  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


In  mystic  file,  through  the  isle,  they  lift  their  heads 
sublime, 

These  grey  old  pillar  temples — these  conquerors  of 
time! 

Beside  these  grey  old  pillars,  how  perishing  and  weak 
The  Roman's  arch  of  triumph,  and  the  temple  of 
the  Greek, 

And  the  gold  domes  of  Byzantium,  and  the  pointed 
Gothic  spires, 

All  are  gone,  one  by  one,  but  the  temples  of  our  sires ! 

The  column,  with  its  capital,  is  level  with  the  dust, 
And  the  proud  halls  of  the  mighty  and  the  calm 
homes  of  the  just; 

For  the  proudest  works  of  man,  as  certainly,  but  slower, 
Pass  like  the  grass  at  the  sharp  scythe  of  the  mower ! 

But  the  grass  grows  again  when  in  majesty  and  mirth, 
On  the  wing  of  the  spring  comes  the  goddess  of  the 
earth ; 

But  for  man  in  this  world  no  springtime  e're  returns 
To  the  labours  of  his  hands  or  the  ashes  of  his  urns ! 


Two  favorites  hath  Time — the  pyramids  of  Nile, 

And  the  old  mystic  temples  of  our  own  dear  isle ; 

As  the  breeze  o'er  the  seas,  where  the  halcyon  has  its 
nest, 

Thus  time  o'er  Egypt's  tombs  and  the  temples  of  the 
west! 

The  names  of  their  founders  have  vanished  in  the 
gloom, 

Like  the  dry  branch  in  the  fire  or  the  body  in  the 
tomb; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OB  IRELAND  37 


But  to-day,  in  the  ray,  their  shadows  still  they  cast — 

These  temples  of  forgotten  gods — these  relics  of  the 
past! 

Around  these  walls  have  wandered  the  Briton  and  the 
Dane — 

The  captives  of  Armorica,  the  cavaliers  of  Spain — 

Phoenician  and  Milesian,  and  the  plundering  Norman 
Peers — 

And  the  swordsmen  of  brave  Brian,  and  the  chiefs 
of  later  years ! 

How  many  different  rites  have  these  grey  old  temples 
known  ? 

To  the  mind  what  dreams  are  written  in  these  chron- 
icles of  stone! 

What  terror  and  what  error,  what  gleams  of  love  and 
truth, 

Have  flashed  from  these  walls  since  the  world  was 
in  its  youth? 

Here  blazed  the  sacred  fire,  and  when  the  sun  was  gone, 

As  a star  from  afar  to  a traveler  it  shone; 

And  the  warm  blood  of  the  victim  have  these  grey  old 
temples  drunk, 

And  the  death  song  of  the  Druid  and  the  matin  of 
the  Monk. 

Here  was  placed  the  holy  chalice  that  held  the  sacred 
wine, 

And  the  gold  cross  from  the  altar,  and  the  relics 
from  the  shrine. 

And  the  mitre  shining  brighter  with  its  diamonds  than 
the  east, 

And  the  crozier  of  the  Pontiff,  and  the  vestments  of 
the  priest ! 


38  BALLAD  HISTORY  OL  IRELAND 


Where  blazed  the  sacred  fire,  rang  out  the  vesper 
bell, — 

Where  the  fugitive  found  shelter,  became  the  her- 
mit's cell; 

And  hope  hung  out  its  symbol  to  the  innocent  and 
good, 

For  the  Cross  o’er  the  moss  of  the  pointed  summit 
stood ! 

There  may  it  stand  for  ever,  while  this  symbol  doth 
impart 

To  the  mind  one  glorious  vision,  or  one  proud  throb 
to  the  heart; 

While  the  breast  needeth  rest  may  these  grey  old 
temples  last. 

Bright  prophets  of  the  future,  as  preachers  of  the 
past! 

— D.  F.  McCarthy . 

The  most  extraordinary  feature  of  the  mission  of 
St.  Patrick,  after  his  phenomenal  success,  was  the  num- 
ber of  men  and  women  conspicuous  for  holiness  of 
life  who  took  up  his  work,  established  monasteries  or 
schools,  gathered  numberless  disciples  about  them  and 
trained  them  to  secular  knowledge  as  well  as  in  the 
science  of  the  saints.  Most  prominent  of  those  days 
were  Saints  Bridget  and  Columbkille — the  former  the 
spiritual  mother  of  Irish  women,  the  latter,  the  most 
famous  of  Ireland’s  missionaries  as  well  as  the  greatest 
of  her  monastic  founders.  The  fame  of  St.  Bridget*  is 
chanted  under  two  aspects  by  De  Vere,  who  also 
renders  the  farewell  song  of  St.  Columbkillef  to  the 

* Born  about  A.  D.  455.  Died  A.  D.  525. 
f Born  A.  D.  521.  Died  A.  D.  597. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  39 


bleak  Isle  of  Arran  that  He  loved  so  well.  St.  Columb- 
kille  was  the  founder  of  Iona  and  the  apostle  of  Scot- 
land. 


ST.  BRIGID  OF  THE  LEGENDS. 

A soft  child-saint  she  moved,  foot-bare, 

Amid  the  kine  sweet-breathing, 

With  boughs,  the  insect  tribe  to  scare, 

Their  horned  foreheads  wreathing. 

Slowly  on  her  their  dark  eyes  grave 
They  rolled  in  sleepy  pleasure, 

Like  things  by  music  charmed,  and  gave 
Their  milk  in  twofold  measure. 

That  hour  there  paused  a beggar  clan 
Through  sultry  fields  on-faring; 

“Come  drink/’  she  cried,  “from  pail  and  pan  !”■ — 
That  small  hand  was  unsparing. 

In  wrath  her  mother  near  them  drew ; — • 

The  pails  that  late  held  nothing, 

Like  fountains  tapped  foamed  up  anew, 

And  buzzed  with  milk  floods  frothing ! 

O Saint,  the  favorite  of  the  poor, 

The  afflicted,  weak  and  weary ! 

Like  Mary’s  was  the  face  she  bore ; 

Men  called  her  “Erin’s  Mary.” 

In  triple  vision  God  to  her 
Revealed  her  country’s  story; 

She  saw  the  advancing  tempests  blur, 

Then  blot,  its  morning  glory. 


40  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Kildare  of  Oaks ! thy  quenchless  Faith, 

Her  gift  it  was ; she  taught  it ! 

The  shroud  Saint  Patrick  wore  in  death, 

’Twas  she,  ’twas  she  that  wrought  it! 

Thus  sang  they  on  the  sunburnt  land 
Among  the  stacks  of  barley; 

And  singing,  smiled,  by  breezes  fanned 
From  Erin’s  dream-land  early. 

— Aubrey  de  V ere. 


ST.  BRIGID  OF  THE  CONVENTS. 

She  looked  not  on  the  face  of  man ; 

Nor  husband  hers,  nor  brother; 

But  where  she  passed  the  children  ran 
And  hailed  that  maid  their  mother ! 

In  haste  she  flies  soft  mead  and  grove, 

For  virtue’s  region  hilly; 

They  called  her,  ’mid  the  birds,  the  Dove, 
Amid  the  flowers,  the  Lily. 

In  woods  of  Oriel-Leinster’s  vales — 

Her  convent  homes  she  planted; 

And  Erin’s  cloistered  nightingales 
Their  nocturnes  darkling  chaunted. 

By  many  a Scottish  moorland  wide, 

By  many  an  English  river, 

Men  loved  of  old  their  “good  Saint  Bride 
But  Erin  loves  forever! 

A sword  went  forth ; thy  fanes  they  burn’d ! 

Sweet  Saint,  no  angers  fret  thee ! — 

There  are  that  ne’er  thy  grace  have  spurned, 
There  are  that  ne’er  forgot  thee ! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  41 


Thus  sang  they  while  the  autumnal  glade 
Exchanged  green  leaf  for  golden ; 

And  later  griefs  were  lighter  made 
By  thoughts  of  glories  olden. 

— Aubrey  de  Vere . 


ST.  COLUMBKILLE'S  FAREWELL  TO  THE 
ISLE  OF  ARRAN,  ON  SETTING  SAIL 
FOR  IONA. 

(from  the;  GAELIC.) 

Farewell  to  Arran  Isle,  farewell, 

I steer  for  Hy ; my  heart  is  sore ; — 

The  breakers  burst,  the  billows  swell 
'Twixt  Arran  Isle  and  Alba's  shore. 

Thus  spake  the  Son  of  God,  “Depart!” 

0 Arran  Isle,  God's  will  be  done! 

By  angels  throng'd  this  hour  thou  art; 

1 sit  within  my  bark  alone. 

O Modan,  well  for  thee  the  while! 

Fair  falls  thy  lot,  and  well  art  thou! 

Thy  seat  is  set  in  Arran  Isle; 

Eastward  to  Alba  turns  my  prow. 

O Arran,  Sun  of  all  the  West! 

My  heart  is  thine!  As  sweet  to  close 
Our  dying  eyes  in  thee,  as  rest 

Where  Peter  and  where  Paul  repose ! 

O Arran,  Sun  of  all  the  West! 

My  heart  in  thee  its  grave  hath  found; 

He  walks  in  regions  of  the  blest 

The  man  that  hears  thy  church  bells'  sound ! 


42  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


O Arran  blest,  O Arran  blest! 

Accursed  the  man  that  loves  not  thee ! 

The  dead  man  cradled  in  thy  breast — 

No  demon  scares  him;  well  is  he. 

Each  Sunday  Gabriel  from  on  high 
(For  so  did  Christ  our  Lord  ordain) 

Thy  masses  comes  to  sanctify. 

With  fifty  angels  in  his  train. 

Each  Monday  Michael  issues  forth 
To  bless  anew  each  sacred  fane ; 

Each  Tuesday  cometh  Raphael 

To  bless  pure  hearth  and  golden  grain. 

Each  Wednesday  cometh  Uriel, 

Each  Thursday  Sariel,  fresh  from  God; 

Each  Friday  cometh  Ramael 

To  bless  thy  stones  and  bless  thy  sod. 

Each  Saturday  comes  Mary, 

Comes  Babe  on  arm,  'mid  heavenly  hosts! 

O Arran,  near  to  heaven  is  he 

That  hears  God's  angels  bless  thy  coasts! 

— Aubrey  de  V ere. 


The  monastic  schools  established  in  Ireland  soon 
won  for  themselves  a world-wide  fame.  The  students 
in  many  of  the  more  famous  were  numbered  by  the 
thousand.  On  account  of  the  break-up  of  the  Roman 
empire  owing  to  the  successive  invasions  of  conquer- 
ing barbarians,  literary  pursuits  were  at  a very  low 
ebb  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  Very  many  students 
came  from  the  different  countries  of  Europe  to  Ireland 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  43 


to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunities  offered  there. 
They  were  warmly  welcomed  and  received  abundant 
hospitality  as  well  as  opportunities  of  advancing  them- 
selves in  sacred  and  secular  learning.  The  following 
ballad  represents  the  ideas  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  prince, 
Alfrid,  who  himself  was  a beneficiary  of  the  Irish 
schools : 

PRINCE  ALFRID’S  ITINERARY  THROUGH 
IRELAND.  * 

(from  The:  IRISH.) 

I found  in  Innisfail  the  fair, 

In  Ireland,  while  in  exile  there, 

Women  of  worth,  both  grave  and  gay  men, 

Many  clerics  and  many  laymen. 

I travelled  its  fruitful  provinces  round, 

And  in  every  one  of  the  five  I found, 

Alike  in  church  and  in  palace  hall, 

Abundant  food  and  apparel  for  all. 

Gold  and  silver  I found,  and  money, 

Plenty  of  wheat  and  plenty  of  honey; 

I found  God’s  people  rich  in  pity, 

Found  many  a feast  and  many  a city. 

I also  found  in  Armagh,  the  splendid, 

Meekness,  wisdom,  and  prudence  blended, 

Fasting,  as  Christ  hath  recommended. 

And  noble  councillors  untranscended. 

I found  in  each  great  church  moreo’er, 

Whether  on  island  or  on  shore. 

Piety,  learning,  fond  affection, 

Holy  welcome  and  kind  protection. 

* About  A.  D.  684. 


44  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


I found  the  good  lay  monks  and  brothers 
Ever  beseeching  help  for  others, 

And  in  their  keeping  the  holy  word 
Pure  as  it  came  from  Jesus  the  Lord. 

I found  in  Munster  unfettered  of  any, 
Kings,  and  queens,  and  poets  a many — 

Poets  well  skilled  in  music  and  measure, 
Prosperous  doings,  mirth  and  pleasure. 

I found  in  Connaught  the  just,  redundance 
Of  riches,  milk  in  lavish  abundance; 
Hospitality,  vigor,  fame, 

In  Cruachan’s  land  of  heroic  name. 

I found  in  the  country  of  Conall  the  glorious, 
Bravest  heroes,  ever  victorious ; 
Fair-complexioned  men  and  warlike, 
Ireland’s  lights,  the  high,  the  starlike ! 


I found  in  Ulster  from  hill  to  glen, 

Hardy  warriors,  resolute  men; 

Beauty  that  bloomed  when  youth  was  gone, 
And  strength  transmitted  from  sire  to  son. 


I found  in  the  noble  district  of  Boyle 
(MS.  here  illegible.) 

Brehons,  Erenachs,  weapons  bright, 

And  horsemen  bold  and  sudden  in  fight. 

I found  in  Leinster  the  smooth  and  sleek, 
From  Dublin  to  Slewmargy’s  peak; 
Flourishing  pastures,  valour,  health, 
Long-living  worthies,  commerce,  wealth. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  45 


I found  besides,  from  Ara  to  Glea, 

In  the  broad  rich  country  of  Ossorie, 

Sweet  fruits,  good  laws  for  all  and  each, 

Great  chess-players,  men  of  truthful  speech. 

I found  in  Meath's  fair  principality, 

Virtue,  vigor,  and  hospitality; 

Candor,  joyfulness,  bravery,  purity, 

Ireland’s  bulwark  and  security. 

I found  strict  morals  in  age  and  youth, 

I found  historians  recording  truth; 

The  things  I sing  of  in  verse  unsmooth, 

I found  them  all — I have  written  sooth. 

— /.  C.  Mangan. 


But  the  Irish  monks  were  not  merely  great  students 
— they  were  also  great  missionaries.  As  I have  al- 
ready said,  St.  Columbkille  was  the  Apostle  of  Scot- 
land ; St.  Columbanus  was  a famous  missionary  in 
France  and  Italy,  and  founder  of  the  monasteries  of 
Luxeuil,  in  France,  and  Bobbio,  in  Italy;  St.  Aidan, 
founder  of  Lindisfarne,  in  England ; in  fact  Montalem- 
bert  tells  us  in  his  great  work,  “The  Monks  of  the 
West,”  that  the  Irish  missionaries  converted  most  of 
England,  and  that  St.  Augustine  and  his  Roman 
monks  only  converted  one  kingdom  of  the  Saxon 
Heptarchy.  The  entire  continent  of  Europe  bears  evi- 
dent marks  of  the  Irish  missionary  invasion,  for  we 
are  told  by  Father  Thebaud  that  “the  Irish  monks  held 
from  the  sixth  to  the  ninth  century  thirteen  Irish  mon- 
asteries in  Scotland,  seven  in  France,  twelve  in  Ar- 


46  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


moric  Gaul,  seven  in  Lotharingia,  eleven  in  Burgundy, 
nine  in  Belgium,  ten  in  Alsatia,  Helvetia  and  Suevia, 
besides  several  in  Thuringia  and  on  the  left  of  the 
Rhine.”  We  are  also  told  by  other  writers  that  “one 
hundred  and  fifty-five  Irish  saints  are  venerated  in 
the  churches  of  Germany,  forty-five  in  Gaul,  thirty  in 
Belgium,  thirteen  in  Italy  and  eight  in  Scandinavia.” 
The  following  ballad  commemorates  an  incident  that 
took  place  in  the  days  of  Charlemagne,  when  two  Irish 
monks  attracted  attention  to  themselves  in  the  market- 
place of  Paris  by  offering  wisdom  for  sale.  One  of 
them,  Clement,  became  founder  of  the  University  of 
Paris ; the  other,  Albin,  of  that  of  Pavia,  in  Italy.  In 
the  following  ballad  the  story  is  supposed  to  be  told 
by  a monk  of  St.  Gall’s  to  King  Charles,  surnamed  the 
Fat — a grandson  of  Charlemagne : 

THE  “WISDOM-SELLERS”  BEFORE  CHARLE- 
MAGNE. * 

“Grandson  of  Charlemagne ! to  tell 
Of  exiled  Learning’s  late  return, 

A task  more  grateful  never  fell 
To  one  still  drinking  at  her  urn ; 

Of  Force,  O King, 

Too  many  sing, 

Lauding  mere  sanguinary  strength ; 

But  Wisdom’s  praise 
Our  favored  days 
Have  asked  to  hear  at  length. 

When  he,  whose  sword  and  name  you  bear 
Reigned  unopposed  throughout  the  West, 

* A.  D.  781. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  47 


And  none  would  dream,  or  dreaming  dare, 

Reject  his  high  behest — 

He  found  no  peace,  nor  near,  nor  far, 

No  spell  to  stay  his  swaying  mind ; 

For  Glory,  like  the  sailor’s  star, 

Still  left  her  votary  far  behind ; 

The  wreck  of  Roman  art  remained, 

Casting  dark  lines  of  destiny ; 

The  very  roads  they  went  proclaimed 
The  modern  man’s  degen’racy ; 

Our  Charles  wept  like  Philip’s  son, 

Thinking  Time’s  noblest  wreaths  were  won. 

“One  morn  upon  his  throne  of  state, 

Crown’d  and  sad  the  Conqueror  sate. 

'What  stirs  without,  my  chiefs  ?’  said  he, 

'Do  all  things  rest  on  land  and  sea  ? 

Has  France  slept  late,  or  has  she  lost 
The  love  of  being  tempest  tost?’ 

Spake  an  old  soldier  of  his  wars, 

One  who  had  fought  in  Lombardy, 

Whose  breast,  beside,  bore  Saxon  scars, — 

The  Soldier-Emperor’s  friend  was  he! 

'O,  Carl,  strange  news  your  steward  bears 
Of  merchants  in  the  mart,  who  tell, 

Standing  amidst  the  mingled  wares 
That  they  bring  wisdom  here  to  sell ; 

Tall  men  though  strange  they  seem  to  be, 

And  somewhere  from  ayont  the  sea.’ 

Quoth  Charles : '’Twere  rare  merchandise 

That  purchased  could  make  Paris  wise. 

Fetch  me  those  wisdom-sellers,  hither — 

We  fain  would  know  their  whence  and  whither.’  ” 

“Of  air  erect,  and  full  of  grace, 

With  bearded  lip  and  arrow  eye, 


48  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  signs  no  presence  could  efface 
Of  learning’s  meek  nobility, 

The  men  appeared : Carl’s  lion  front 

Was  lifted  as  each  bowed  his  head, 

With  words  more  gentle  than  his  wont, 

To  the  two  strangers  thus  he  said — 
'Merchants,  what  is  the  tale  I hear? 

That  in  the  market-place  you  offer 
Wisdom  for  sale?  Is  wisdom  dear— 

Is’t  in  the  compass  of  our  coffer?’ 

"In  accents  such  as  seldom  broke 
The  silence  there,  Albinus  spoke: — 

'O,  Carl,  illustrious  Emperor, 

We  are  but  strangers  on  your  shore, 

From  Erin’s  Isle,  where  every  glen 
Is  crowded  with  the  sons  of  song, 

And  every  port  with  learned  men, 

We,  venturing  without  the  throng — 

(And  longing,  not  the  least,  to  see 
The  person  of  your  majesty, 

Whose  fame  has  reached  the  ends  of  ocean), 
Forsook  our  native  Isle,  to  bear 
The  lamps  of  wisdom  everywhere, 

Our  Heavenly  Master’s  work  to  do — 

And  first  we  come,  O King,  to  you  ; 

On  Cormac’s  Cromleach  you  have  gazed, 

And  seen  the  prone  strength  of  the  past ; 
You  saw  the  piles  the  Caesars  raised: 

Saw  Art  his  Empire-cause  outlast ; 

All  scenes  of  war,  all  pomps  of  peace, 

Armies  and  harvests  in  array — 

Your  longing  soul  from  sights  like  these 
To  time  and  Art  oft  turns  away.’ 

“ 'Great  hosts  are  bristling  over  earth, 

Like  grain  in  harvest — till  anon, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  49 


A wintry  campaign,  or  a dearth 

Of  valour,  and  your  hosts  are  gone. 
The  soldier's  pride  is  for  a season, 

His  day  leads  to  a silent  night, 

But  sov'reign  Power,  inspired  by  reason, 
Creates  a world  of  life  and  light; 

We've  rifled  the  departed  ages, 

And  bring  their  grave-gifts  here  today; 
We  sell  the  secrets  of  the  sages — 

The  code  of  Calvary  and  Sinai. 

To  Wisdom,  King  f we  set  no  measure ; 

For  Wisdom's  price — there  is  but  one — 
To  value  it  above  all  treasure 

And  spend  it  freely  when  'tis  won. 

By  every  peaceful  Gaelic  river 
The  Bookmen  have  a free  abode, 

They  celebrate  each  princely  giver 
And  teach  the  arts  of  Man  and  God. 

All  that  we  ask  for  all  we  bring 
Is  eager  pupils  round  our  cell, 

And  your  protection,  mighty  King! 

While  in  the  realms  of  France  we  dwell/ 

“Grandson  of  Carl!  I need  no  more, 

The  rest  throughout  the  earth  is  known 
How  learning  lost  to  us  before 
Spread  like  a sun  around  his  throne. 

Till  now  in  Saxon  forests  dim 
New  neophytes  their  love-lights  trim — 
How  even  my  own  Alpine  heights 
Are  luminous  through  studious  nights, 
How  Pavia's  learned  half  regain 
The  glory  of  the  Roman  name — 

How  mind  with  mind  and  soul  with  soul 
Press  onward  to  the  ancient  goal — 

How  faith  herself  smiles  on  the  chase 


SO  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 

Of  Chimera  and  Reason's  race — 

How  Wisdom-Sellers  one  may  meet 
In  every  ship  and  every  street — 

Of  how  our  Irish  masters  rest 
In  graves  watched  by  the  grateful  West — 
How  more  than  war  or  sanguine  strength 
Of  wisdom's  praise, 

Our  favoured  days, 

Have  asked  to  hear  at  length." 

— T.  D . McGee . 


For  about  three  centuries  Ireland  enjoyed  her  fame 
as  the  Insula  Doctorum  et  Sanctorum — the  Isle  of 
scholars  and  of  saints.  Towards  the  end  of  the  eighth 
century  her  glory  began  to  wane.  The  Danes  ap- 
peared upon  her  horizon;  they  plundered  the  schools 
and  churches,  butchered  many  of  the  religious  of  both 
sexes  and  harassed  the  country  at  large.  At  last,  on 
Good  Friday,  A.  D.  1014,  after  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  of  varied  fortunes,  the  forces  of  the  Danes 
were  pitted  in  a death  struggle  against  the  flower  of 
Irish  chivalry  united  under  the  Irish  High-King  Brian 
Boru.  The  battle  took  place  at  Clontarf,  near  Dublin, 
and  the  power  of  the  Danes  in  Ireland  was  forever 
broken.  Brian  himself,  his  son  and  his  grandson, 
were  slain. 

KING  BRIAN  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE* 

Stand  ye  now  for  Erin's  glory!  Stand  ye  now  for 
Erin's  cause ! 

Long  ye've  groaned  beneath  the  rigour  of  the  North- 
men's savage  laws. 

* A.  D.  1014. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  51 


What  though  brothers  league  against  us?  What 
though  myriads  be  the  foe  ? 

Victory  will  be  more  honored  in  the  myriads’  over- 
throw. 

Proud  Connacians ! oft  we’ve  wrangled,  in  our  petty 
feuds  of  yore; 

Now  we  fight  against  the  robber  Dane,  upon  our  native 
shore ; 

May  our  hearts  unite  in  friendship,  as  our  blood  in 
one  red  tide, 

While  we  crush  their  mail-clad  legions,  and  annihilate 
their  pride! 

Brave  Eugenians ! Erin  triumphs  in  the  sight  she  sees 
today — 

Desmond’s  homesteads  all  deserted  for  the  muster  and 
the  fray! 

Cluan’s  vale  and  Galtee’s  summit  send  their  bravest 
and  their  best — 

May  such  hearts  be  theirs  forever,  for  the  Freedom 
of  the  West! 

Chiefs  and  Kerne  of  Dalcassia ! Brothers  of  my  past 
career, 

Oft  we’ve  trodden  on  the  pirate-flag  that  flaunts  before 
us  here, 

You  remember  Iniscattery,  how  we  hounded  on  the 
foe, 

As  the  torrent  of  the  mountain  burst  upon  the  plain 
below ! 

They  have  razed  our  proudest  castles — spoiled  the 
Temples  of  the  Lord — 

Burnt  to  dust  the  sacred  relics — put  the  peaceful  to  the 
sword — 


52  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Desecrated  all  things  holy — as  they  soon  may  do  again. 

If  their  power  today  we  smite  not — if  today  we  be  not 
men ! 

Slaughtered  pilgrims  is  the  story  at  St.  Kevin’s  rocky 
cell, 

And  on  the  southern  sea-shore,  at  the  Helig’s  holy 
well; 

E’en  the  anchorets  are  hunted,  poor  and  peaceful 
though  they  be, 

And  not  one  of  them  left  living,  in  their  caves  beside 
the  sea ! 

Think  of  all  your  murder’d  chieftains — all  your  rifled 
homes  and  shrines — 

Then  rush  down,  with  whetted  vengeance,  like  fierce 
wolves  upon  their  lines! 

Think  of  Bangor — think  of  Mayo — and  Senanus’  holy 
tomb — 

Think  of  all  your  past  endurance — what  may  be  your 
future  doom ! 

On  this  day  the  God-man  suffered — look  upon  the 
sacred  sign- — 

May  we  conquer  ’neath  its  shadow,  as  of  old  did  Con- 
stantine ! 

May  the  heathen  tribes  of  Odin  fade  before  it  like  a 
dream, 

And  the  triumph  of  this  glorious  day  in  future  annals 
gleam ! 

God  of  Heaven,  bless  our  banner — nerve  our  sinews 
for  the  strife ! 

Fight  we  now  for  all  that’s  holy — for  our  altars,  land, 
and  life — 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  53 


For  red  vengeance  on  the  spoiler,  whom  the  blazing 
temples  trace — 

For  the  honour  of  our  maidens,  and  the  glory  of  our 
race! 

Should  I fall  before  the  foeman,  ’tis  the  death  I seek 
today ; 

Should  ten  thousand  daggers  pierce  me,  bear  my  body 
not  away, 

Till  this  day  of  days  be  over — till  the  field  is  fought 
and  won — 

Then  the  Holy  Mass  be  chaunted,  and  the  funeral  rites 
be  done. 

Curses  darker  than  Ben  Heder  light  upon  the  craven 
slave 

Who  prefers  the  life  of  traitor  to  the  glory  of  the 
grave ! 

Freedom’s  guerdon  now  awaits  you,  or  a destiny  of 
chains — 

Trample  down  the  dark  oppressor  while  one  spark  of 
life  remains ! 

Think  not  now  of  coward  mercy — Heaven’s  curse  is 
on  their  blood! 

Spare  them  not,  though  myriad  corses  float  upon  the 
purple  flood! 

By  the  memory  of  great  Dathi,  and  the  valiant  chiefs 
of  yore, 

This  day  we’ll  scourge  the  viper  brood  for  ever  from 
our  shore! 

Men  of  Erin!  men  of  Erin!  grasp  the  battle-axe  and 
spear ! 

Chase  these  Northern  wolves  before  you  like  a herd  of 
frightened  deer ! 


54  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Burst  their  ranks,  like  bolts  from  heaven!  Down  on 
the  heathen  crew, 

Por  the  glory  of  the  Crucified  and  Erin’s  glory  too! 

— W illiam  Kenealy. 


In  the  preceding  ballad  King  Brian  makes  touching 
allusion  to  the  internal  strifes  of  the  Irish.  Each  chief- 
tain had  his  feud  with  some  neighboring  chief  and  in- 
ternecine war  was  the  sad  and  only  too  frequent  con- 
sequence. At  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  the 
MacGillapatrick’s  of  Ossory  were  in  feud  with  the 
Dalcassians;  and  as  a contingent  of  the  latter  were 
wearily  making  their  way  homeward  after  the  great 
victory,  and  carefully  caring  for  their  wounded,  they 
were  set  upon  by  their  enemies.  The  wounded  Dal- 
cassians were  supported  by  stakes  to  which  they  were 
tied,  and  bravely  they  helped  to  withstand  the  hostile 
assault.  One  is  glad  to  read  that  the  treacherous 
MacGillapatricks  were  completely  beaten  back. 

WAR  SONG. 

Remember  the  glories  of  Brian  the  Brave, 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o’er; 

Though  lost  to  Mononia,  and  cold  in  the  grave, 

He  returns  to  Kinkora  no  more ! 

The  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  has  pour’d 
Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set; 

But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword 
To  light  us  to  victory  yet ! 

Mononia!  when  nature  embellished  the  tint 
Of  thy  fields  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  55 


Did  she  ever  intend  that  a tyrant  should  print 
The  footsteps  of  slavery  there? 

No,  freedom!  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 
Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 

’Tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrine, 

Than  to  sleep  but  a moment  in  chains ! 

Forget  not  our  wounded  companions,  who  stood 
In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side; 

While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their  blood, 
They  stirr’d  not,  but  conquered  and  died! 

The  sun  that  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light, 
Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory’s  plain! 

Oh  let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  tonight, 
To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain ! 

— Thomas  Moore. 


For  about  150  years  after  the  battle  of  Clontarf  Ire- 
land had  peace.  But  the  Normans,  who  in  the  pre- 
ceding century  had  conquered  England,  were,  in  the 
year  1168,  brought  into  Ireland  by  Dermot  McMor- 
rougli,  who  had  been  driven  out  of  Ireland  on  account 
of  a grievous  wrong  committed  by  him.  Their  leader 
was  Richard  De  Clare,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  commonly 
called  Strongbow,  and  as  he  and  his  followers  were 
well  skilled  in  the  art  of  war  they  soon  obtained  a hold 
upon  Ireland  which  they  never  afterwards  lost.  They 
adopted  the  Irish  language  and  customs  to  a great  ex- 
tent and,  as  the  saying  was,  became  more  Irish  than 
the  Irish  themselves.  One  of  the  most  famous  of 


56  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


these  Norman-Irish  families  was  that  of  Fitzgerald,  or 

the  Geraldines,  as  they  are  frequently  called. 

THE  GERALDINES. 

The  Geraldines ! the  Geraldines ! — ’tis  full  a thousand 
years 

Since,  ’mid  the  Tuscan  vineyards,  bright  flashed  their 
battle  spears 

When  Capet  seized  the  crown  of  France,  their  iron 
shields  were  known, 

And  their  sabre-dint  struck  terror  on  the  banks  of  the 
Garonne : 

Across  the  downs  of  Hastings  they  spurred  hard  by 
William’s  side. 

And  the  gray  sands  of  Palestine  with  Moslem  blood 
they  dyed ; — 

But  never  then,  nor  thence,  till  now,  have  falsehood  or 
disgrace 

Been  seen  to  soil  Fitzgerald’s  plume,  or  mantle  in  his 
face. 

The  Geraldines!  the  Geraldines! — ’tis  true,  in  Strong- 
bow’s  van 

By  lawless  force,  as  conquerors,  their  Irish  reign 
began ; 

And  oh ! through  many  a dark  campaign  they  proved 
their  prowess  stern, 

In  Leinster’s  plains,  and  Munster’s  vales,  on  king,  and 
chief,  and  kerne: 

But  noble  was  the  cheer  within  the  halls  so  rudely 
won, 

And  generous  was  the  steel-gloved  hand  that  had  such 
slaughter  done; 

How  gay  their  laugh,  how  proud  their  mien ! you’d  ask 
no  herald’s  sign 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  57 


Among  a thousand  you  had  known  the  princely  Ger- 
aldine. 

These  Geraldines ! these  Geraldines ! — not  long  our 
air  they  breathed ; 

Not  long  they  fed  on  venison,  in  Irish  water  seethed ; 

Not  often  had  their  children  been  by  Irish  mothers 
nursed, 

When  from  their  full  and  genial  hearts  an  Irish  feeling 
burst ! 

The  English  monarchs  strove  in  vain,  by  law,  and 
force,  and  bribe, 

To  win  from  Irish  thoughts  and  ways  this  “more  than 
Irish”  tribe; 

For  still  they  clung  to  fosterage,  to  breitheamh,  cloak, 
and  bard : 

What  king  dare  say  to  Geraldine,  “Your  Irish  wife 
discard  ?” 

Ye  Geraldines ! ye  Geraldines ! how  royally  ye  reigned 

O’er  Desmond  broad,  and  rich  Kildare,  and  English 
arts  disdained: 

Your  sword  made  knights,  your  banner  waved,  free 
was  your  bugle  call 

By  Gleann’s  green  slopes,  and  Daingean’s  tide,  from 
Bearbha’s*  banks  to  Eochaill.** 

What  gorgeous  shrines,  what  breitheamh  lore,  what 
minstrel  feasts  there  were 

In  and  around  Magh  Nuadhaid’sf  keep,  and  palace- 
filled  Adare! 

But  not  for  rite  or  feast  ye  stayed,  when  friend  or  kin 
were  pressed 

And  foeman  fled,  when  “Crom  Abu”  bespoke  your 
lance  at  rest. 

Ye  Geraldines ! ye  Geraldines ! — since  Silken  Thomas 
flung 

* Pronounced  Barrow.  **  Youghal. 

f Pronounced  Ma-noo-ad. 


58  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


King  Henry’s  sword  on  council  board,  the  English 
thanes  among, 

Ye  never  ceased  to  battle  brave  against  the  English 
sway, 

Though  axe  and  brand  and  treachery  your  proudest 
cut  away. 

Of  Desmond’s  blood,  through  woman’s  veins  passed 
on  th’  exhausted  tide 

His  title  lives — a Saxon  churl  usurps  the  lion’s  hide : 

And  though  Kildare  tower  haughtily,  there’s  ruin  at 
the  root, 

Else  why,  since  Edward  fell  to  earth,  had  such  a tree 
no  fruit? 


True  Geraldine!  brave  Geraldine! — as  torrents  mould 
the  earth, 

You  channelled  deep  old  Ireland’s  heart  by  constancy 
and  worth : 

When  Ginckle  leaguered  Limerick,  the  Irish  soldiers 
gazed 

To  see  if  in  the  setting  sun  dead  Desmond’s  banner 
blazed ! 

And  still  it  is  the  peasant’s  hope  upon  the  Cuirreach’s 
mere, 

“They  live  who’ll  see  ten  thousand  men  with  good 
Lord  Edward  here” — 

So  let  them  dream  till  brighter  days,  when,  not  by 
Edward’s  shade, 

But  by  some  leader  true  as  he,  their  lines  shall  be  ar- 
rayed ! 


These  Geraldines  ! these  Geraldines  ! — rain  wears  away 
the  rock. 

And  time  may  wear  away  the  tribe  that  stood  the  bat- 
tle’s shock, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  59 


But,  ever,  sure,  while  one  is  left  of  all  that  honored 
race, 

I11  front  of  Ireland's  chivalry  is  that  Fitzgerald's  place: 

And,  though  the  last  were  dead  and  gone,  how  many 
a field  and  town 

From  Thomas  Court  to  Abbey feile,  would  cherish  their 
renown, 

And  men  would  say  of  valor's  rise,  or  ancient  power's 
decline, 

“ 'Twill  never  soar,  it  never  shone,  as  did  the  Gerald- 
ine." 

The  Geraldines!  the  Geraldines! — and  are  there  any 
fears 

Within  the  sons  of  conquerors  for  full  a thousand 
years  ? 

Can  treason  spring  from  out  a soil  bedewed  with 
martyr's  blood? — 

Or  has  that  grown  a purling  brook,  which  long  rushed 
down  a flood? — 

By  Desmond  swept  with  sword  and  fire, — by  clan  and 
keep  laid  low, — 

By  Silken  Thomas  and  his  kin, — by  sainted  Edward! 
No! 

The  forms  of  centuries  rise  up,  and  in  the  Irish  line 

Command  their  son  to  take  the  post  that  fits  the  Ger- 
aldine ! 

— Thomas  Davis . 


To  prevent  the  Normans  from  inter-marriage 
with  the  Irish  and  the  adoption  of  the  Irish  language 
and  customs  in  their  daily  intercourse,  a famous 
statute  was  passed  in  the  year  1367,  known  to  history 


6o  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


as  the  Statute  of  Kilkenny.  It  entirely  failed  to  attain 
its  purpose. 

THE  STATUTE  OF  KILKENNY. 

Of  old  ye  warr’d  on  men : today 
On  women  and  on  babes  ye  war; 

The  Noble's  child  his  head  must  lay 
Beneath  the  peasants'  roof  no  more! 

I saw  in  sleep  the  Infant's  hand, 

His  foster-brother's  fiercely  grasp ; 

His  warm  arm,  lithe  as  willow  wand, 

Twines  me  each  day  with  closer  clasp! 

Oh,  infant  smiler!  grief  beguiler! 

Between  the  oppressor  and  the  oppress'd. 

Oh,  soft,  unconscious  reconciler, 

Smile  on ! through  thee  the  land  is  bless’d. 

Through  thee,  the  puissant  love  the  poor; 

His  conqueror's  hope  the  vanquish'd  shares ; 

For  thy  sake  by  a lowly  door 

The  clan-made  vassal  stops  and  stares. 

Our  vales  are  healthy.  On  thy  cheek 
There  dawns,  each  day,  a livelier  red: 

Smile  on!  Before  another  week 
Thy  feet  our  earthen  floor  will  tread ! 

Thy  foster-brothers  twain  for  thee, 

Would  face  the  wolves  on  snowy  fell: 

Smile  on!  the  Irish  enemy 
Will  fence  their  Norman  nursling  well. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  61 


The  nursling  as  the  child  is  dear; — 

Thy  mother  loves  not  like  thy  nurse ! 

That  babbling  Mandate  steps  not  near 
Thy  cot  but  o’er  her  bleeding  corse ! 

— Aubrey  de  Vere. 


Many  a fierce  encounter  took  place  between  the  Nor- 
man barons  trying  to  extend  English  domination  in 
Ireland  and  the  Irish  chieftains  fighting  for  their 
homes  and  possessions.  One  of  the  most  famous  of 
these  battles  was  fought  A.  D.  1257  at  Credankille,  in 
Sligo,  between  Godfrey  O’Donnell,  of  Tyrconnell,  and 
his  Irish  clansmen  and  Maurice  Fitzgerald  and  his 
mail-clad  Anglo-Normans.  The  leaders  met  in  single 
combat  and  were  both  carried  from  the  field  severely 
wounded:  but  the  Irish  were  victors.  Fitzgerald  af- 
terwards retired  to  a Franciscan  monastery  and  died 
in  the  habit  of  religion ; the  fate  of  O’Donnell  we  shall 
see  anon. 


BATTLE  OF  C REDAN.* 

From  the  glens  of  his  fathers  O’Donnell  comes  forth, 
With  all  Cinel-Conaill,  fierce  septs  of  the  North — 
O’Boyle  and  O’Daly,  O’Dugan,  and  they 
That  own,  by  the  wild  waves,  O’Doherty’s  sway. 

Clan  Connor,  brave  sons  of  the  diadem’d  Niall, 

Has  pour’d  the  tall  clansmen  from  mountain  and 
vale — 

M’Sweeney’s  sharp  axes,  to  battle  oft  bore, 

Flash  bright  in  the  sun-light  by  high  Dunamore. 

* A D 1257. 


62  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Through  Innis-MacDurin,  through  Derry’s  dark 
brakes, 

Glentoucher  of  tempests,  Sleibhsnacht  of  the  lakes, 
Bundoran  of  dark  spells,  Loch-Swilly’s  rich  glen, 

The  red  deer  rush  wild  at  the  war-shout  of  men ! 

O!  why  through  Tir-Conaill,  from  Cuil-dubh’s  dark 
steep, 

To  Samer’s  green  border  the  fierce  masses  sweep, 
Living  torrents  o’er-leaping  their  own  river  shore, 

In  the  red  sea  of  battle  to  mingle  their  roar? 

Stretch  thy  vision  far  southward,  and  seek  for  reply 
Where  the  blaze  of  the  hamlets  glares  red  on  the  sky — 
Where  the  shrieks  of  the  hopeless  rise  high  to  their 
God, 

Where  the  foot  of  the  Sassenach  spoiler  has  trod. 

Sweeping  on  like  a tempest,  the  Gall-Oglach  stern 
Contends  for  the  van  with  the  swift-footed  kern — 
There’s  blood  for  that  burning,  and  joy  for  that  wail — 
The  avenger  is  hot  on  the  spoiler’s  red  trail ! 

The  Saxon  hath  gathered  on  Credran’s  far  heights, 
His  groves  of  long  lances,  the  flower  of  his  knights — 
His  awful  cross-bowman,  whose  long  iron  hail 
Finds,  through  Cota  and  Sciath,  the  bare  heart  of  the 
Gael! 

The  long  lance  is  brittle — the  mailed  ranks  reel 
Where  the  Gall-Oglach’s  axe  hews  the  harness  of  steel, 
And  truer  to  its  aim  in  the  breast  of  a foeman, 

Is  the  pike  of  a kern  than  the  shaft  of  a bowman. 

One  prayer  to  St.  Columb — the  battle-steel  clashes — 
The  tide  of  fierce  conflict  tumultuously  dashes; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  63 


Surging  onward,  high-heaving  its  billow  of  blood, 
While  war-shout  and  death-groan  swell  high  o’er  the 
flood! 

As  meet  the  wild  billows  the  deep  centr’d  rock, 

Met  glorious  Clan  Conell  the  fierce  Saxon’s  shock ; 

As  the  wrath  of  the  clouds  flash’d  the  axe  of  Clan 
Conell, 

Till  the  Saxon  lay  strewn  ’neath  the  might  of  O’Don- 
nell! 

One  warrior  alone  holds  the  wide  bloody  field, 

With  barbed  black  charger  and  long  lance  and  shield — 
Grim,  savage,  and  gory  he  meets  their  advance, 

His  broad  shield  up-lifting  and  couching  his  lance. 

Then  forth  to  the  van  of  that  fierce  rushing  throng 
Rode  a chieftain  of  tall  spear  and  battle-axe  strong, 
His  bracca,*  and  geochal,**  and  cochal’sf  red  fold, 
And  war-horse’s  housing,  were  radiant  in  gold! 

Say  who  is  this  chief  spurring  forth  to  the  fray, 

The  wave  of  whose  spear  holds  yon  armed  array? 
And  he  who  stands  scorning  the  thousands  that  sweep, 
An  army  of  wolves  over  shepherdless  sheep? 

The  shield  of  the  nation,  brave  Geoffrey  O’Donnell 
Clan  Fodhla’s  firm  prop  is  the  proud  race  of  Conell, 
And  Maurice  Fitzgerald,  the  scorner  of  danger, 

The  scourge  of  the  Gael,  and  the  strength  of  the 
stranger. 

The  launch’d  spear  hath  torn  through  target  and 
mail — 

The  couch’d  lance  hath  borne  to  his  crupper  the  Gael — 
The  steeds  driven  backwards  all  helplessly  reel; 

But  the  lance  that  lies  broken  hath  blood  on  its  steel ! 

* Leggings.  **  Tunic,  f Cloak. 


64  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  now,  fierce  O’Donnell,  thy  battle-axe  wield — 

The  broad-sword  is  shiver’d,  and  cloven  the  shield, 
The  keen  steel  sweeps  grinding  through  proud  crest 
and  crown — 

Clan-Fodhla  hath  triumph’d — the  Saxon  is  down! 

— Edward  Walsh . 

One  great  trouble  with  Ireland  in  her  contest  with 
the  Anglo-Normans,  as  previously  with  the  Danes,  was 
that  the  Irish  chieftains  were  perpetually  at  feud  with 
each  other.  It  was  this  unfortunate  weakness  that 
enabled  the  Anglo-Normans  to  establish  themselves  in 
Ireland.  The  fierce  warriors  before  whom  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  went  down  forever  in  one  day  at  the  battle 
of  Hastings  took  centuries  to  subdue  Ireland’s  warlike 
sons.  They  could  never  have  succeeded  if  the  Irish 
chieftains  had  foregone  their  rivalries  and  presented 
a united  front  to  the  common  foe.  The  O’Neills  and 
O’Donnells,  though  sprung  from  the  same  stock,  were 
bitter  rivals,  and  when  Godfrey  O’Donnell  lay  wound- 
ed after  his  glorious  victory  at  Credran  Kille,  O’Neill 
strove  to  take  advantage  of  his  weakness,  as  the  fol- 
lowing vigorous  ballad  relates: 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOUGH  SWILLY.* 

All  worn,  and  wan,  and  sore  with  wounds,  from  Cre- 
dran’s  bloody  fray 

In  Donegal,  for  twelve  long  months,  the  proud  O’Don- 
nell lay; 

Around  his  couch,  in  bitter  grief,  his  trusty  clansmen 
wait, 

And  silent  watch,  with  aching  hearts,  his  faint  and 
feeble  state. 

* A.  D.  1258. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  65 


Full  sad  it  was,  that  gallant  chief  thus  stricken  down 
to  see. 

The  wise  in  hall,  the  brave  in  field,  the  fearless  and 

the  free; 

Tyrowen’s  scourge,  Tyrconnell’s  pride,  now  as  an  in- 
fant weak. 

And  wrung  with  pain  his  manly  form,  all  sunk  his 
pallid  cheek. 

His  war-shield  hangs  above  him  there,  his  sword  is 
by  his  bed ; 

And  at  the  foot  his  henchman  sits, — his  bard  is  by  its 
head ; 

And  on  his  clairseach  wakes  at  times  a soft  and  sooth- 
ing strain, 

And  sings  the  songs  of  other  days  to  lull  his  master’s 
pain. 

A light  wind  touched  his  banner  there,  and  waved  it 
to  and  fro, 

And  on  his  couch  he  raised  him  up  all  wearily  and 
slow  ; 

“Oh,  bear  me  forth,”  the  chieftain  said,  “and  let  me 
view  once  more, 

The  rustling  woods  of  Gartan  side,  Lough  Betagh’s 
gentle  shore. 

t 

“Methinks,  upon  this  burning  brow,  right  pleasant 
’twere  to  feel 

The  fresh  breeze  from  the  waters  sweep,  and  o’er  it 
cooling  steal ; 

And  see  the  stag  upon  the  hills,  the  white  clouds  drift- 
ing by, 

And  feel,  upon  my  wasted  cheek,  God’s  sunshine  ere 
I die.” 


66  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


It  was  a summer’s  evening,  a glorious  eve  in  June, 

When  bright  the  sun  look’d  back  on  hills,  all  purple 
in  their  bloom ; 

And  blue  the  lake,  and  fair  the  sky  when  down  his 
gillies  bore 

Their  wounded  chief,  on  litter  soft,  to  Betagh’s  pleas- 
ant shore. 

He  looked  upon  the  hills  and  lake — he  gazed  upon  the 
sky; 

The  very  harebell  at  his  foot  had  beauty  for  his  eye; 

And  o’er  his  brow,  and  features  pale,  a quiet  calmness 
crept, 

And,  leaning  back,  he  closed  his  eyes,  all  tranquilly, 
and  slept. 

But  soon  his  slumber  passed  away,  and  suddenly  he 
woke, 

And  thus,  with  kindling  eye  and  cheek,  the  wounded 
warrior  spoke : 

“A  war-steed’s  tramp  is  on  the  heath,  and  onward 
cometh  fast, 

And,  by  the  Rood ! a trumpet  sounds ! — Hark,  ’tis  the 
Red  Hand’s  blast.” 

Nor  hoof  nor  horn  his  vassals  heard,  nor  echo,  from 
the  hill ; 

The  lake  was  calm,  the  wood  was  hush’d,  and  all 
around  was  still ; 

But  soon  a Kerne  all  breathless  ran  and  told  a stranger 
train 

Across  the  heath  was  spurring  fast,  and  then  in  sight 
it  came. 

“Now,  bring  me  quick  my  father’s  sword,”  the  noble 
chieftain  said; 

“My  mantle  o’er  my  shoulders  fling — place  helmet  on 
my  head, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  67 


And  raise  me  to  my  feet,  for  ne'er  shall  clansman  of 
my  foe 

Go  boasting  tell  in  far  Tyrone  he  saw  O'Donnell  low!" 

They  brought  him  there  his  father's  sword,  all  goodly 
to  behold, 

His  mantle  o'er  his  shoulders  cast — its  clasp  was 
twisted  gold — 

And  on  his  brow  a helmet  placed,  and  then,  tho'  pale 
his  face, 

Yet  circled  by  his  chiefs  he  look'd  the  Monarch  of  his 
Race ! 

And  thither  came  the  messenger,  O'Niall's  henchman 
he, 

And  proudly  o'er  the  heath  he  stept,  with  bearing  bold 
and  free, 

His  left  hand  grasps  a sheathed  sword — then  spake 
O'Donnell  brief, 

“ Stranger,  you  come  from  Clannaboy — what  tidings 
from  your  chief?" 

FYTTE  II. 

‘'High  Chief  of  Donegal" — 'twas  thus  the  clansman 
back  did  say — 

“O'Niall  sends  you  greeting  fair,  as  lord  a vassal  may, 

And  bids  you  render  homage  due,  as  did  your  sires 
before, 

And  unto  him  this  tribute  pay  ere  thrice  three  days 
are  o'er: 

"A  hundred  hawks  from  out  your  woods,  all  trained 
their  prey  to  get; 

A hundred  steeds  from  off  your  hills  uncrossed  by 
rider  yet; 


68  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


A hundred  kine  from  off  your  plains,  the  best  your 
land  doth  know; 

A hundred  hounds  from  out  your  halls,  to  hunt  the 
stag  and  roe.,, 

“Nor  hawk,  nor  hound,  nor  steed,  nor  steer,  O’Niall 
gets  from  me; 

Nor  homage  yield,  nor  tribute  send — no  vassal  clan 
are  we! 

And  be  he  Lord  of  Clannaboy,  and  Chieftain  at 
Tyrone, 

Yet  I am  Prince  in  Donegal — let  each  man  hold  his 
own. 

“We  tread  our  hills  as  freeborn  men!  nor  Lord,  nor 
Ruler,  know. 

We  bend  the  knee  to  God  alone — go  tell  your  chieftain 
so. 

Mac  Carthan’s  rocks  are  hard  to  climb;  Lough  Swil- 
ly’s  sides  are  steep, 

And  what  our  fathers  gave  to  us,  our  good  right 
hands  shall  keep!” 

The  clansman  heard  in  silent  rage,  then  proud  his 
sword  he  drew, 

And  boldly  at  O’Donneirs  foot  the  scabbard  down  he 
threw ; 

And  waved  in  air  the  blade  aloft,  and  blew  a trumpet 
blast — 

Then  folded  stern  his  mantle  wide,  and  o'er  the  hills 
he  passed. 

When  out  of  sight,  O'Donnell  sank,  all  worn  and  weak 
with  pain, 

And  from  his  wounded  side,  alas,  the  blood  gush’d 
forth  amain; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OE  IRELAND  69 


But  still  unquenched  his  spirit  burned,  as  brightly  as 
of  old. 

And  thus  he  to  his  vassals  spake,  in  accents  calm  and 
bold: 

“Go,  call  around  Tyrconnell’s  chiefs,  my  warriors  tried 
and  true; 

Send  fast  a friend  to  Donal  More,  a scout  to  Lisnahue ; 

Light  balefires  quick  on  Easker’s  towers,  that  all  the 
land  may  know 

O’Donnell  needeth  help  and  haste,  to  meet  his  haughty 
foe. 

“Oh,  could  I but  my  people  head,  or  wield  once  more 
a spear, 

Saint  Angus!  but  we’d  hunt  their  hosts  like  herds  of 
fallow  deer. 

But  vain  the  wish,  since  I am -now  a faint  and  failing 
man. 

Yet,  ye  shall  bear  me  to  the  field,  in  centre  of  my 
clan! 

“Right  in  the  midst,  and  lest,  perchance,  upon  the 
march  I die, 

In  my  coffin  ye  shall  place  me,  uncovered  let  me  lie ; 

And  swear  ye  now,  my  body  cold  shall  never  rest  in 
clay, 

Until  you  drive  from  Donegal  O’Niall’s  host  away.” 

Then  sad  and  stern,  with  hand  on  skian,  that  solemn 
oath  they  swore, 

And  in  his  coffin  placed  their  chief,  and  on  a litter 
bore; 

Tho’  ebbing  fast  his  life-throbs  came,  yet  dauntless  in 
his  mood, 

He  marshall’d  well  Tyrconnell’s  chiefs,  like  leader  wise 
and  good. 


70  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 
FYTTE  III. 

Lough  S willy’s  sides  are  thick  with  spears — O’Niall’s 
host  is  there. 

And  proud  and  gay  their  battle  sheen,  their  banners 
flout  the  air; 

And  haughtily  a challenge  bold  their  trumpet  bloweth 
free, 

When  winding  down  the  heath-clad  hills,  O’Donnell’s 
band  they  see. 

No  answer  back  those  warriors  gave,  but  sternly  on 
they  stept, 

And  in  their  centre,  curtained  black,  a litter  close  is 
kept, 

And  all  their  host  it  guideth  fair,  as  did  in  Galilee 

Proud  Judah’s  tribes  the  Ark  of  God,  when  crossing 
Egypt’s  sea. 

“What  pageant  trick  is  this  I see?”  O’Niall  sternly 
said ; 

“Do  shaven  priests,  with  stole  and  pall,  Tyrconnell’s 
rebels  head? 

Then  shall  they  learn  how  scant  I prize  such  mean  and 
pompous  show, 

O’Hanlon ! you  have  steeds  and  men,  and  yonder  is 
the  foe.” 

Then  reined  that  chief  his  panting  steed,  his  sword 
above  him  flash’d, 

And  “Forward!  sons  of  Coll,”  he  cried,  and  o’er  the 
heath  he  dash’d; 

And  like  a rock  that  thunders  down  some  dried-up 
torrent’s  bed, 

Clan  Hanlon’s  horsemen  bounded  on,  young  Redmond 
at  their  head! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  71 


But  M’Sweeney  met  them  in  the  midst,  and  check’d 
their  fierce  career — 

M’Sweeney,  chief  of  Fanid  broad,  with  many  a moun- 
tain spear, 

And  he  slew  their  gallant  leader,  and  clove  both  crest 
and  shield, 

And  wide  Clan  Hanlon’s  horsemen  bold  are  scatter’d 
thro’  the  field! 

Then  rush’d  like  fire  Clan  Rory’s  race,  with  shouts 
that  rend  the  skies, 

And  stricken  by  M’Gennis  stern,  the  stout  M’Sweeney 
dies; 

But  from  the  hills  O’Cahan  bursts,  with  chiefs  of  In- 
nishowen, 

And  falls  the  Tanist  of  Iveagh,  for  O’Niall  and  Ty- 
rone ! 

Then  rose  the  roar  of  battle  loud,  as  clan  met  clan  in 
fight, 

And  axe  and  skian  grew  red  with  blood,  a sad  and 
woful  sight; 

Yet,  in  the  midst  o’er  all,  unmoved,  that  litter  black 
is  seen, 

Like  some  dark  rock  that  lifts  its  head,  o’er  ocean’s 
war  serene! 

Yet  once,  when  blenching  back  fierce  Bryan’s  charge 
before, 

Tyrconnell  waver’d  in  its  ranks,  and  all  was  nearly 
o’er, 

Aside  those  curtains  wide  were  flung,  and  plainly  to 
the  view, 

Each  host  beheld  O’Donnell  there,  all  pale  and  wan  in 
hue. 


72  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  to  his  tribes  he  stretch'd  his  hands,  and  pointed 
to  the  foe, 

And  with  a shout  they  rally  round,  and  on  Clan  Hugh 
they  go ; 

And  back  they  beat  their  horsemen  fierce,  and  in  a 
column  deep, 

With  O'Donnell  in  their  foremost  rank,  in  one  fierce 
charge  they  sweep. 

And  on  that  host  a panic  came — a panic  and  a fear — 

And  then  their  hearts  wax  faint  and  low — their  hands 
drop  sword  and  spear; 

And  stricken  by  the  ghastly  sight,  despite  their  leaders 
high, 

They  shrink  before  O’Donnell's  face,  and  turn  their 
steeds  and  fly! 

In  vain  O'Niall  dash’d  along,  with  banner  in  his  hand, 

And  for  the  honour  of  Tyrone,  he  bade  them  turn  and 
stand ; 

In  wild  affright  his  squadrons  flee,  as  ebbs  the  tide 
away, 

Tho'  the  north  wind  strives  to  check  it,  in  Dundrum's 
rocky  bay ! 

Lough  S willy’s  banks  are  thick  with  spears ! — O’Niall’s 
host  is  there. 

But  rent  and  tost  like  tempest-clouds,  Clan  Donnell 
in  the  rere, 

Lough  Swilly's  waves  are  red  with  blood,  as  madly 
in  its  tide, 

O'Niall's  horsemen  wildly  plunge,  to  reach  the  other 
side! 

And  broken  is  Tyro  wen's  pride,  and  vanquish'd  Clan- 
naboy, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  73 


And  there  is  wailing  thro’  the  land,  from  Ban  to 
Aughnacloy ; 

The  Red  Hand’s  crest  is  bent  in  grief,  upon  its  shield 
a stain. 

For  its  stoutest  clans  are  broken — its  bravest  chiefs 
are  slain. 

But  proud  and  high  Tyrconnell  shouts;  but  blending 
on  the  gale, 

Upon  the  ear  ascendeth  now  a sad  and  sullen  wail ; 

For  on  that  field,  as  back  they  bore,  from  chasing  of 
the  foe, 

The  spirit  of  O’Donnell  fled — oh,  woe  for  Ulster,  woe ! 

Yet  died  he  there  all  gloriously — a victor  in  the  fight — 

A Chieftain  at  his  people’s  head,  a warrior  in  his 
might, 

They  dug  him  there  a fitting  grave,  upon  that  field 
of  pride — 

And  a lofty  cairn  raised  above,  by  fair  Lough  Swilly’s 
side. 


Every  one  who  has  ever  been  in  Ireland  knows  that 
it  is,  so  to  say,  covered  with  glorious  monastic  ruins. 
The  Danes  destroyed  many  of  the  churches  and  mon- 
asteries that  had  come  down  from  the  earlier  ages. 
When  their  power  was  broken  and  Ireland  had  re- 
covered somewhat  from  their  ravages,  churches  and 
monasteries  began  to  spring  up  once  more.  Some  of 
the  most  famous  of  the  churches  whose  ruins  still 
remain  date  from  this  period,  such  as  Mellifont,  Cong, 
Knockmoy,  Holy-cross  and  others.  The  Anglo-Nor- 
mans, being  religiously  disposed  like  the  Irish,  built 


74  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


and  endowed  many  others.  The  following  ballad  tells 
the  tale  of  this  phase  of  Ireland’s  history.  Holy-cross 
Abbey  was  founded  A.  D.  1181  by  Donald  O’Brien, 
King  of  Limerick  and  North  Munster,  for  the  Cister- 
tians,  an  order  which  had  been  introduced  into  Ireland 
a short  time  before  by  St.  Malachi : 

HOLY-CROSS  ABBEY. 

"From  the  high  sunny  headlands  of  Bere  in  the  west, 
To  the  bowers  that  by  Shannon’s  blue  waters  are  blest, 
I am  master  unquestion’d  and  absolute,”  said 
The  lord  of  broad  Munster — King  Donald  the  Red. 
"And  now  that  my  scepter’s  no  longer  the  sword, 

In  the  wealthiest  vale  my  dominions  afford, 

I will  build  me  a temple  of  praise  to  that  Power 
Who  buckler’d  my  breast  in  the  battle’s  dread  hour.” 
He  spoke — it  was  done — and  with  pomp  such  as  glows 
Round  a sunrise  in  summer  that  Abbey  arose. 

There  sculpture  her  miracles  lavish’d  around, 

Until  stone  spoke  a worship  diviner  than  sound. 

There  from  matins  to  midnight  the  censers  were  sway- 
ing, 

And  from  matins  to  midnight  the  people  were  praying ; 
As  a thousand  Cistertians  incessantly  raised 
Hosannas  round  shrines  that  with  jeweU’ry  blazed; 
While  the  palmer  from  Syria — the  pilgrim  from  Spain, 
Brought  their  offerings  alike  to  the  far-honour’d  fane ; 
And,  in  time,  when  the  wearied  O’Brien  laid  down 
At  the  feet  of  Death’s  Angel  his  cares  and  his  crown, 
Beside  the  high  altar  a canopied  tomb 
Shed  above  his  remains  its  magnificent  gloom, 

And  in  Holy-cross  Abbey  High  Masses  were  said, 
Through  the  lapse  of  long  ages,  for  Donald  the  Red. 


CHALICE  OF  ARDAGH 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  75 

In  the  days  of  my  musings,  I wander’d  alone, 

To  this  fane  that  had  flourish’d  ere  Norman  was 
known ; 

And  its  drear  desolation  was  saddening  to  see, 

For  its  towers  were  an  emblem,  O Erin,  of  thee ! 

All  was  glory  in  ruins — below  and  above — 

From  the  traceried  turret  that  shelter’d  the  dove, 

To  the  cloisters  dim  stretching  in  distance  away, 
Where  the  fox  skulked  at  twilight  in  quest  of  his  prey. 
Here,  soar’d  the  vast  chancel  superbly  alone, 

While  pillar  and  pinnacle  moulder’d  around — 
There,  the  choir’s  richest  fretwork  in  dust  overthrown, 
With  corbel  and  chapiter  cumber’d  the  ground. 

O’er  the  porphyry  shrine  of  the  Founder  all  riven, 

No  lamps  glimmer’d  now  but  the  cressets  of  heaven — 
From  the  tombs  of  crusader,  and  abbot,  and  saint, 
Emblazonry,  scroll,  and  escutcheon  were  rent; 

While  usurping  their  banners’  high  places,  o’er  all, 
The  Ivy — dark  mourner — suspended  her  pall. 

With  deeper  emotions  the  spirit  would  thrill, 

In  beholding  wherever  the  winter  and  rain 
Swept  the  dust  from  the  relics  it  cover’d — that  still 
Some  hand  had  religiously  glean’d  them  again. 

Then  I turn’d  from  the  scene,  as  I mournfully  said — 
“God’s  rest  to  the  soul  of  King  Donald  the  Red.” 

— D.  Simmons . 


One  of  the  most  famous  soldiers  that  Ireland  has 
ever  produced  and  certainly  the  foremost  figure  in  the 
wars  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  was  Art 
Mac  Murrogh,  a member  of  the  same  family  as  Der- 
mot  Mac  Murrogh,  who  had  induced  the  Anglo-Nor- 
mans to  invade  Ireland.  He  was  a brilliant  strategist, 


76  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


as  well  as  a dashing  leader,  and  he  succeeded  in  rescu- 
ing many  fortified  places  from  the  hands  of  the  in- 
vaders and  in  very  much  circumscribing  their  power. 
His  influence  and  his  power  were  so  great  that  King 
Richard  II.  of  England  found  it  necessary  more  than 
once  to  go  to  Ireland  in  person  so  as  to  animate  his 
troops  by  his  presence.  But  he  could  not  prevail 
against  the  stalwart  Irish  chieftain  of  whom  D’Arcy 
McGee  writes:  “In  the  Irish  history  of  the  Middle 

Ages — from  Brian's  era  to  Hugh  O’Neill’s — he  has 
no  equal  for  prudence,  foresight,  perseverance,  valor 
and  success.”  He  died  at  New  Ross  in  Wexford, 
A.  D.  14 1 7,  aged  about  sixty  years. 

THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  ART  MAC 
MURROGH. 

When  Dynasts  and  Tanists,  arrayed  on  the  heather 
For  Erin,  and  vengeance  took  counsel  together, 

Whose  foot  than  the  red  deer’s  was  freer  and  lighter? 
Whose  eye  than  the  eagle’s  was  keener  and  brighter? 
Whose  voice  than  the  peal  of  the  thunder  was  louder  ? 
Whose  bearing  than  that  of  a monarch’s  was  prouder  ? 
Whose  plume  was  the  haughtiest,  air-borne,  flying? 
Whose  sword  flashed  the  brightest  o’er  dead  and  o’er 
dying  ? 

Though  Saxons  in  herds  should  his  person  environ, 
Whose  grasp  on- the  war-horse  was  rigid  as  iron? 
Whose  heart  beat  the  lightest  in  trial  and  danger  ? 
Whose  hate  was  the  blackest  for  Saxon  and  stranger  ? 
Oh,  whose  but  MacMurrogh’s,  the  pride  of  his  sire- 
land, 

The  sword  and  the  buckler,  the  war-god  of  Ireland; 
The  Pale’s-men  and  Saxons  like  rabbits  would  burrow 
In  fastness  and  fortress,  with  fear  of  MacMurrogh! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OK  IRELAND  77 


When  Kileas  was  chaunting  where  red  wine  was  flow- 
ing— 

When  eyes  sparkled  brightly  on  cheeks  hotly  glow- 
ing— 

Whom  first  did  they  laud,  and  to  whom  first  give 
honour  ? 

The  Calnach,  O’Nolan,  O’Brien,  or  O’Connor? — 

Oh!  who  but  MacMurrogh,  the  chieftain  so  glorious, 
O’er  Norman  and  Saxon  forever  victorious. 

At  the  gates  of  the  Pale,  on  the  banks  of  King’s 
River, 

Of  glory  and  fame  he  made  hand-maids  forever. 
When  Ormond  fled  fast  to  the  Pale,  for  a haven, 
Leaving  Mortimer’s  corpse  to  the  wolf  and  the  raven, 
The  castle  of  Wexford  he  gave  to  the  burning, 

Their  ramparts  and  bulwarks  in  dust  overturning, 
At  Athcroe,  the  ford  of  the  blood-tarnish’d  water, 
Lord  Thomas  of  England  got  pale  for  the  slaughter ; 
By  Butler  and  Perrers  the  tale  was  out-spoken 
Of  all  that  Art  did  when  his  vengeance  was  woken. 

The  swords  of  the  foemen  he  heap’d  up  to  heaven, 
Their  owners  lying  near  them,  by  thousands,  un- 
shriven— 

E’en  Richard  of  England  confess’d  him  his  master 
When  blow  follow’d  blow,  and  disaster,  disaster. 

From  forest  and  fastness,  from  hill-top  and  valley, 
How  bravely  he’d  dash— oh,  how  wildly  he’d  sally ! 
’Till  Saxon  blood  flow’d  like  a stream  from  its  foun- 
tain, 

Then  hie  him  again  to  his  haunts  in  the  mountain ; 

Oh ! many  the  hearts,  neither  fickle  nor  hollow, 

Would  leave  kine  to  starve,  and  untill’d  leave  the 
furrow, 

When  raised  was  your  proud  flag,  thou  dauntless  Mac- 
Murrogh. 


78  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


As  strong  as  an  oak,  and  as  tall  as  a cedar — 

By  birthright  a Monarch,  by  nature  a Leader — 

On  self  and  his  own  gallant  hosting  reliant, 

Of  Richard  and  all  his  mailed  nobles  defiant — 

Of  large  heart  and  loving,  the  foremost  to  rally 
Around  him  the  septs  of  the  mountain  and  valley ; 
O’Brien,  and  MacDavid,  O’Toole,  and  O’Connor, 

All  loved  of  green  Ireland,  all  spotless  of  honour — 
Through  gloom,  and , through  danger  would  follow, 
and  find  him 

And  peal  in  the  fierce  fight  their  war-cries  behind  him. 
Ah ! woe  for  the  day,  when  the  hand  of  Death  found 
him, 

NWith  his  Maidens  and  Kerns,  and  Fileas  around  him. 

With  weeping  and  wailing,  in  sad  Ross  MacBruin, 
The  Bards  and  the  Brehons  foretold  the  land’s  ruin ; 
The  folds  of  the  flag  of  false  Ormond  were  given 
With  joy  to  the  free  air,  and  breezes  of  heaven; 

The  heart  of  the  Calvach  with  anguish  was  laden, 
O’Toole  of  Imayle,  wept  aloud  like  a maiden, 
O’Nolan,  O’Brien,  and  MacDavid,  in  sorrow, 

Looked  down  on  their  hostings,  and  thought  on  the 
morrow. 

The  sable-cowl’d  friars  the  death  mass  were  singing — 
The  maidens  in  anguish,  their  white  hands  were  wring- 
ing, 

By  river,  by  lake,  in  each  valley  and  high-land, 

The  Death  Caoine  was  raised  for  the  pride  of  the 
island — 

The  kine  roam’d  at  large,  and  untill’d  lay  the  furrow, 
When  death  struck  the  haughty,  and  mighty  MacMur- 
rogh. 

— William  Pembroke  Mulchinock , 


I 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  79 

One  of  the  most  cherished  social  institutions  of  the 
Irish  was  that  of  fosterage.  By  this  is  meant  that  the 
child  of  a chieftain  was  given  over  to  be  suckled  by 
some  young  woman  of  lower  rank.  It  formed  a link 
sometimes  even  stronger  than  blood  between  the  noble 
child  and  the  family  of  its  foster  parents,  and  par- 
ticularly the  child  whose  natural  rights  it  was  per- 
mitted to  share.  This  Irish  custom  was  one  of  those 
adopted  by  the  Anglo-Norman  lords.  When  Silken 
Thomas,  the  tenth  Earl  of  Kildare,  rose  in  rebellion 
against  Henry  VIII.  of  England,  he  committed  the 
command  of  his  great  Castle  of  Maynooth  to  his  fos- 
ter brother,  Christopher  Parez.  He  was  not  a man 
animated  by  the  true  spirit  of  fosterage  and  so  he 
entered  into  negotiations  with  the  English  commander 
for  the  betrayal  of  his  trust,  with  what  result  to  him- 
self the  following  ballad  tells.  The  rebellion  of  Silken 
Thomas  originated  in  a mistaken  rumor  that  Gerald, 
his  father,  the  ninth  Earl,  had  been  murdered  by 
Henry  in  prison.  The  rebellion  ended  in  disaster  and 
Thomas  and  his  five  uncles  were  executed  at  Tyburn 
A.  D.  1537. 

THE  SIEGE  OF  MAYNOOTH.* 

Crom,  Crom-aboo ! The  Geraldine  rebels  from  proud 
Maynooth, 

And  with  him  are  leagued  four  hundred,  the  flower 
of  Leinster’s  youth. 

* A.  D.  1535. 


8o  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Take  heart  once  more,  O Erin ! The  great  God  gives 
thee  hope; 

And  thro'  the  mists  of  Time  and  Woe  thy  true  Life’s 
portals  ope! 

Earl  Thomas  of  the  Silken  Robes ! — here  doubtless 
burns  thy  soul ! 

Thou  beamest  here  a Living  Sun,  round  which  thy 
planets  roll! 

O!  would  the  Eternal  Powers  above  that  this  were 
only  so! 

Then  had  our  land,  now  scorned  and  banned,  been 
saved  a world  of  woe ! 

No  more! — no  more! — it  maddeneth  so! — But  ram- 
part, keep,  and  tower, 

At  least  are  still — long  may  they  be — a part  of  Ire- 
land’s power! 

But — who  looks  ’mid  his  warriors  from  the  walls,  as 
gleams  a pearl 

’Mid  meaner  stones?  ’Tis  Parez — foster-brother  of 
the  Earl. 

Enough ! — we  shall  hear  more  of  him ! Amid  the 
hundred  shafts 

Which  campward  towards  the  Saxon  host  the  wind 
upbears  and  wafts, 

One  strikes  the  earth  at  Talbot’s  feet,  with  somewhat 
white — a scroll — 

Impaled  upon  its  barb — O!  how  exults  the  leader’s 
soul ! 

He  grasps  it — reads — “Now,  by  St.  George,  the  day  at 
last  is  ours ! 

Before  tomorrow’s  sun  arise  we  hold  yon  haughty 
towers ! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  81 


The  craven  traitor ! — but,  his  well ! — he  shall  receive 
his  hire, 

And  somewhat  more  to  boot,  God  wot,  than  perchance 
he  may  desire!” 

Alas!  alas; — his  all  too  true!  A thousand  marks  of 
gold 

In  Parez’  hands,  and  Leinster's  bands  are  basely 
bought  and  sold! 

Earl  Thomas  loses  fair  Maynooth  and  a hundred  of 
his  clan — 

But,  worse!  he  loses  half  his  hopes,  for  he  loses  trust 
in  Man ! 

The  morn  is  up ; the  gates  lie  wide ; the  foe  pour  in 
amain. 

O ! Parez,  pride  thee  in  thy  plot,  and  hug  thy  golden 
chain ! 

There  are  cries  of  rage  from  battlements,  and  mellays 
beneath  in  court. 

But  Leinster’s  Brave,  ere  moon  blaze  high,  shall 
mourn  in  donjon  fort! 

“Ho!  Master  Parez!  thou?”  So  spake  in  the  hall  the 
Saxon  chief — 

“How  hast  thou  proved  this  tentless  loon  ? But,  come, 
we  will  stanch  thy  grief! 

Count  these  broad  pieces  over  well !”  He  flung  a purse 
on  the  ground, 

Which  in  wrathful  silence  Parez  grasped,  ’mid  the 
gaze  of  all  around. 

“So! — right?”  “Yes,  right,  Sir  John!  Enough!  I 
now  depart  for  home!” 

“Home,  sayest  thou,  Master  Parez?  Yes,  and  by  my 
Halidome, 


82  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Mayest  reach  that  sooner  than  thou  dreamest.  But 
before  we  part 

I would  a brief,  blunt  parle  with  thee.  Nay,  man,  why 
dost  thou  start  ?” 

“A  sudden  spasm,  Sir  John.”  “Ay,  ay!  those  sudden 
spasms  will  shock, 

As  when,  thou  knowest,  a traitor  lays  his  head  upon 
the  block !” 

“Sir  John!” — “Hush,  man,  and  answer  me!  Till  then 
thou  art  in  bale — 

Till  then  mine  enemy  and  thrall!”  The  fallen  chief 
turned  pale. 

“Say,  have  I kept  good  faith  with  thee?”  “Thou  hast — 
good  faith  and  true!” 

“I  owe  thee  nought,  then?”  “Nought,  Sir  John;  the 
gold  lies  here  to  view.” 

“Thou  art  the  Earl’s  own  foster-brother?”  “Yes,  and 
bosom-friend !” 

“What?”  “Nay,  Sir  John,  I need  those  pieces,  and — ” 
“ — Come,  there’s  an  end!” 

“The  Earl  heaped  favours  on  thee?”  “Never  King 
heaped  more  on  Lord!” 

“He  loved  thee?  honoured  thee?”  “I  was  his  heart, 
his  arm,  his  sword !” 

“He  trusted  thee?”  “Even  as  he  trusted  his  own  lofty 
soul !” 

“And  thou  betrayedst  him  ? Base  wretch ! thou  know- 
est the  traitor’s  goal! 

“Ho!  Provost-Marshal,  hither!  Take  this  losel  cai- 
tiff hence — 

I mark,  methinks,  a scaffold  under  yonder  stone  de- 
fence. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  83 


Off  with  his  head!  By  Heaven,  the  blood  within  me 
boils  and  seethes 

To  look  on  him!  So  vile  a knave  pollutes  the  air  he 
breathes !” 

'Twas  but  four  days  thereafter,  of  a stormy  evening 
late, 

When  a horseman  reared  his  charger  in  before  the 
castled  gate, 

And  gazing  upwards,  he  descried,  by  the  light  the  pale 
moon  shed, 

Impaled  upon  an  iron  stake,  a well  known  gory  head ! 

“So,  Parez!  thou  hast  met  thy  meed!”  he  said  and 
turned  away — 

“And  was  it  a foe  that  thus  avenged  me  on  that  fatal 
day? 

Now,  by  my  troth,  albeit  I hate  the  Saxon  and  his  land, 

I could,  methinks,  for  one  brief  moment  press  the  Tal- 
bot's hand !” 

— /.  C.  Mangan. 


The  era  of  religious  persecution  commenced  for 
Ireland,  as  for  England,  when  Henry  VIII.  threw  off 
allegiance  to  Rome  and  substituted  himself  for  the 
Pope  as  the  head  of  the  Church  in  those  kingdoms, — 
a pretension  which  the  Irish  particularly  did  not  choose 
to  admit.  It  became  more  acute  under  Edward  VI. 
and  Queen  Elizabeth.  One  way  of  weaning  the  Irish 
nobility  from  the  faith  and  from  their  national  al- 
legiance was  to  seize  the  persons  of  noble  children, 
take  them  to  England  and  educate  them  at  court  in 
English  ideas  and  the  new  religion  and  then  send  them 


84  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


back  to  Ireland  to  do  England’s  work.  Hugh  O’Neill, 
the  famous  Irish  chieftain,  who  caused  so  much 
trouble  to  Elizabeth  in  her  later  years,  was  brought 
up  in  this  way;  but  when  sent  back  to  Ireland  as  the 
Earl  of  Tyrone,  he  entered  into  himself  and  resumed 
the  style  and  religion  of  his  forefathers.  His  medita- 
tions on  the  subject  are  thus  portrayed  for  us: 

THE  O’NEILL.  * 

“Can  aught  of  glory  or  renown 
To  thee  from  Saxon  titles  spring? 

Thy  name  a kingdom  and  a crown, 

Tir-owen’s  chieftain,  Ulster’s  king!” 

These  were  the  sounds  that  on  the  ear 
Of  Tir-owen’s  startled  Earl  arose, 

That  blanch’d  his  alter’d  cheek  with  fear, 

And  from  his  pillow  chas’d  repose. 

In  vain  was  closed  his  weary  eye, 

In  vain  his  prayer  for  peaceful  sleep, 

Still  from  a viewless  spirit  nigh, 

Broke  forth  in  accents  loud  and  deep : 

“Can  aught  of  glory  or  renown, 

To  thee  from  Saxon  titles  spring? 

Thy  name  a kingdom  and  a crown, 

Tir-owen’s  chieftain,  Ulster’s  king! 

“Oft  did  thy  eager  youthful  ear, 

Bend  to  the  tale  of  Thomond’s  shame, 

And  in  thy  pride  of  blood  didst  swear 
To  hold  with  life  thy  glorious  name! 

* Born  1540.  Died  1616. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  85 


“Yet  thou  didst  leave  thy  native  land, 

For  honours  on  a foreign  shore, 

And  for  submission’s  purchas’d  brand, 
Barter’d  the  name  thy  fathers  bore! 

“Where  are  those  fathers’  glories  gone? 

The  pride  of  ages  that  have  been ! 

While  tamely  bows  their  traitor  son, 

The  vassal  of  a Saxon  Queen; 

“While  still  within  a dungeon’s  walls, 
Ardmira’s  fetter’d  prince  reclines, 

While  Imayle  for  her  chieftain  calls, 

Who  in  a distant  prison  pines; 

“While  from  that  corse,  yet  reeking  warm, 
O’er  his  own  fields  the  life-streams  flow, 

Well  mayst  thou  start!  that  mangled  form 
Once  was  thy  friend,  Mac  Mahon  Roe. 

“Forget’st  thou  that  a vessel  came 
To  Cineal’s  strand,  in  gaudy  pride, 

Fraught  with  each  store  of  valued  name, 
That  nature  gave  or  art  supplied; 

“No  voice  to  bid  the  youth  beware, 

Of  banquets  by  the  Saxon  spread; 

He  tasted,  and  the  treacherous  snare 
Clos’d  o’er  the  young  O’Donnell’s  head. 

“Hopeless,  desponding,  still  he  lies, 

No  aid  his  griefs  to  soothe  or  end; 

And  oft  in  vain  his  languid  eyes 

Turn  bright’ning  on  his  father’s  friend ; 

“Who  was  that  friend? — a chief  of  power, 
The  guardian  of  a kingdom’s  weal, 


86  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Tir-owen’s  pride,  and  Ulster’s  flower, 

A prince,  a hero,  The  O’Neill! 

“He  at  whose  war-horn’s  potent  blast, 

Twice  twenty  chiefs  in  battle  tried, 

Unsheath’d  the  sword  in  war-like  haste, 

And  ranged  their  thousands  on  his  side. 

“But  now,  he  dreads  the  paths  to  tread, 

That  lead  to  honours,  power,  and  fame; 

And  stands,  each  nobler  feeling  dead, 
Nameless,  who  own’d  a monarch’s  name. 

“Shall  Ardmir’s  prince  forever  groan, 

And  Imayle’s  chief  still  fetter’d  lie? 

None  for  Mac  Mahon’s  blood  atone? 

Nought  cheer  O’Donnell’s  languid  eye? 

“To  thee  they  turn,  on  thee  they  rest; 

Release  the  chain’d,  revenge  the  dead, 

Or  soon  the  halls  thy  sires  possest, 

Shall  echo  to  a stranger’s  tread! 

“And  in  the  sacred  chair  of  stone, 

The  base  Ne  Gaveloc  shalt  thou  see 

Receive  the  name,  the  power,  the  throne 
That  once  was  dear  as  life  to  thee! 

“Arise!  for  on  his  native  plains 

His  father’s  warriors  marshall’d  round, — 

O’Donnell,  freed  from  Saxon  chains, 

Shall  soon  the  signal  trumpet  sound. 

“And  soon,  thy  sacred  cause  to  air, 

The  brave  O’Cahan,  at  thy  call, 

Shall  brandish  high  the  flaming  blade, 

That  filled  the  grasp  of  Cuie-na-gall ; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  87 


“Resume  thy  name,  in  arms  arise, 

Tear  from  thy  breast  the  Saxon  star, 

And  let  the  coming  midnight  skies 
Be  crimson’d  with  thy  fires  of  war ! 

“And  bid  around  the  echoing  land 

The  war-horn  raise  thy  vassal  powers; 
And,  once  again,  the  Bloody  Hand 

Wave  on  Dungannon’s  royal  towers !” 

— Anon. 


Hugh  O’Neill,  the  subject  of  the  preceding  ballad, 
was  at  first  inclined,  as  the  ballad  indicates,  to  favor 
the  English  side  and  bring  his  countrymen  to  an  under- 
standing with  Queen  Elizabeth.  But  at  last  his  bet- 
ter instincts,  Catholic  and  national,  prevailed,  and  he 
became  the  leader  of  the  native  Irish,  and  when  op- 
portunity arose  assumed  the  Irish  title — O’Neill.  A 
contemporary  and  friend,  as  well  as  a most  dashing 
soldier  was  Hugh  O’Donnell,  of  Tyrconnell,  who,  hav- 
ing escaped  from  Dublin  Castle,  whither  he  had  been 
brought  as  a prisoner,  became  a most  active  and 
faithful  ally  of  Hugh  O’Neill.  The  following  ballad 
describes  the  battle  of  Beal-An-Atha-Buidh  (Beal-an- 
aw-bwee)  or  the  battle  of  the  Yellow  Ford,  at  which 
O’Neill  had  supreme  command  and  O’Donnell  was  his 
chief  and  most  efficient  lieutenant.  The  ballad  empha- 
sizes the  difference  in  arms,  discipline  and  food  be- 
tween the  two  armies ; but  the  headlong  valour  of  the 
Irish,  fighting  for  homes  and  altars,  prevailed.  The 
battle  was  fought  on  the  14th  of  August,  1598.  After 


88  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 

varied  fortunes,  O’Neill  died  in  Rome,  a pensioner  of 
the  Pope,  and  is  buried  in  the  Church  of  St.  Peter,  in 
Montorio.  Hugh  O’Donnell  died  in  Spain  on  the  ioth 
of  September,  1602,  in  the  very  prime  of  manhood, 
and  is  buried  at  Valladolid. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH.* 

By  O’Neill  close  beleaguer’d,  the  spirits  might  droop 
Of  the  Saxon — three  hundred  shut  up  in  their  coop, 
Till  Bagenal  drew  forth  his  Toledo,  and  swore, 

On  the  sword’s  of  a soldier  to  succour  Portmore. 

His  veteran  troops,  in  the  foreign  wars  tried — 

Their  features  how  bronz’d,  and  how  haughty  their 
stride — 

Stept  steadily  on!  it  was  thrilling  to  see 
That  thunder-cloud  brooding  o’er  Beal-An-Atha- 
Buidh. 

The  flash  of  their  armour,  inlaid  with  fine  gold,— 
Gleaming  match  locks  and  cannons  that  mutteringly 
roll’d — 

With  the  tramp  and  the  clank  of  those  stern  cuiras- 
siers, 

Dyed  in  blood  of  the  Flemish  and  French  cavaliers. 

And  are  the  mere  Irish,  with  pikes  and  with  darts, — 
With  but  glibb-cover’d  heads,  and  but  rib-guarded 
hearts — 

Half-naked,  half-fed,  with  few  muskets,  no  guns — 
The  battle  to  dare  against  England’s  stout  sons  ? 

Poor  Bonnochts,  and  wild  Gallow-glasses,  and  Kern — 
Let  them  war  with  rude  brambles,  sharp  furze,  and 
dry  fern; 

* A.  D.  1598. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  89 


Wirrastrue  for  their  wives — for  their  babes  ochanie, 
If  they  wait  for  the  Saxon  at  Beal-An-Atha-Buidh. 

Yet  O’Neill  standeth  firm — few  and  brief  his  com- 
mands— 

“Ye  have  hearts  in  your  bosoms,  and  pikes  in  your 
hands ; 

Try  how  far  ye  can  push  them,  my  children,  at  once ; 
Fag-a-Bealach ! — and  down  with  horse,  foot,  and  great 
guns. 

“They  have  gold  and  gay  arms — they  have  biscuit  and 
bread ; 

Now,  sons  of  my  soul,  we’ll  be  found  and  be  fed;” 
And  he  clutch’d  his  claymore,  and — “Look  yonder,” 
laughed  he, 

“What  a grand  commissariat  for  Beal-An-Atha- 
Buidh.” 

Near  the  chief,  a grim  tyke,  an  O’Shanaghan  stood, 
His  nostril  dilated  seemed  snuffing  for  blood; 

Rough  and  ready  to  spring,  like  the  wiry  wolf-hound 
Of  Ierne,  who,  tossing  his  pike,  with  a bound, 

Cried,  “My  hand  to  the  Sassanach ! ne’er  may  I hurl 
Another  to  earth  if  I call  him  a churl! 

He  finds  me  in  clothing,  in  booty,  in  bread — 

My  chief,  won’t  O’Shanaghan  give  him  a bed?” 

“Land  of  Owen,  aboo!”  and  the  Irish  rush’d  on — 
The  foe  fir’d  but  one  volley — their  gunners  are  gone; 
Before  the  bare  bosoms  the  steel-coats  have  fled, 

Or,  despite  casque  or  corslet,  lie  dying  and  dead. 

And  brave  Harry  Bagenal,  he  fell  while  he  fought 
With  many  gay  gallants — they  slept  as  men  ought ; 


90  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Their  faces  to  Heaven — there  were  others,  alack! 

By  pikes  overtaken,  and  taken  aback. 

And  my  Irish  got  clothing,  coin,  colours,  great  store, 

Arms,  forage,  and  provender — plunder  go  leor! 

They  munch'd  the  white  manchets — they  champ'd  the 
brown  chine, 

Fiulleluah ! for  that  day,  how  the  natives  did  dine ! 

The  Chieftain  looked  on,  when  O'Shanaghan  rose, 

And  cried,  /'Hearken  O'Neill;  I've  a health  to  pro- 
pose: 

'To  our  Sassanach  hosts  V”  and  all  quaffed  in  huge 
glee. 

With  Cead  mile  failte  go,  Beal-An-Atha-Buidh ! 

— William  Drennan. 


In  the  year  1642,  on  the  24th  day  of  October,  the 
Confederation  of  Kilkenny  was  formed.  It  was  a 
union  of  the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  Norman  and  Irish, 
to  oppose  the  English  Puritans,  and  while  maintain- 
ing their  right  to  an  Irish  Parliament  and  the  free 
exercise  of  their  religion,  to  proclaim  allegiance  to 
Charles  I.,  King  of  England,  who  was  then  engaged 
in  a life-or-death  struggle  with  his  enemies.  To  aid 
the  Irish  Catholics  with  money,  arms  and  advice,  Pope 
Innocent  X.  sent  John  Baptist  Rinuccini,  Bishop  of 
Fermo  in  Italy.  He  stood  staunchly  for  Catholic 
rights  and  was  supported  faithfully  by  Owen  Roe 
O'Neill,  the  native  Irish  leader,  and  generally  by  the 
Irish — while  the  Anglo-Normans,  or  rather  Norman- 
Irish  element,  were  willing  to  make  a treaty  and  ac- 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  91 


cept  terms  that  were  not  satisfactory  to  Rinuccini  or 
the  native  Irish  leaders.  The  following  ballad  repre- 
sents the  sentiment  of  an  Irish  Ulster  chieftain  of 
this  period — utterly  opposed  to  any  counsels  of  prud- 
ence— and  bitterly  distrustful  of  the  Norman  Irish. 
The  Confederation  of  Kilkenny  ended  in  disaster ; 
Owen  Roe  died,  Rinuccini  sailed  back  to  Italy,  and 
Cromwell,  having  no  worthy  soldier  pitted  against 
him,  over-ran  the  country  and  left  behind  him  traces 
that  remain  to  this  day. 

THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH. 

Joy!  joy!  the  day  is  come  at  last,  the  day  of  hope 
and  pride, 

And  see!  our  crackling  bonfires  light  old  Banna’s 
joyful  tide. 

And  gladsome  bell,  and  bugle  horn,  from  Inbhar’s 
captured  towers, 

Hark ! how  they  tell  the  Saxon  swine,  this  land  is  ours, 
is  ours ! 

Glory  to  God!  my  eyes  have  seen  the  ransomed  fields 
of  Down, 

My  ears  have  drunk  the  joyful  news,  “Stout  Phelim 
hath  its  own.” 

Oh ! may  they  see  and  hear  no  more,  oh ! may  they 
rot  to  clay, 

When  they  forget  to  triumph  in  the  conquests  of  today. 

Now,  now  we’ll  teach  the  shameless  Scot  to  purge  his 
thievish  maw. 

Now,  now  the  courts  may  fall  to  pray,  for  justice  is 
the  law, 


92  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Now  shall  the  Undertaker  square  for  once  his  loose 
accounts, 

We'll  strike,  brave  boys,  a fair  result,  from  all  his 
false  amounts. 

Come,  trample  down  their  robber  rule,  and  smite  its 
venal  spawn, 

Their  foreign  laws,  their  foreign  Church,  their  ermine 
and  their  lawn, 

With  all  the  specious  fry  of  fraud  that  robb'd  us  of 
our  own ; 

And  plant  our  ancient  laws  again,  beneath  our  lineal 
throne. 

Our  standard  flies  o'er  fifty  towers,  o'er  twice  ten 
thousand  men; 

Down  have  we  plucked  the  pirate  Red,  never  to  rise 
again ; 

The  Green  alone  shall  stream  above  our  native  field 
and  flood — 

The  spotless  Green,  save  where  its  folds  are  gemmed 
with  Saxon  blood! 

Pity ! no,  no ; you  dare  not,  Priest — not  you,  our 
Father,  dare 

Preach  to  us  now  that  Godless  creed — the  murderer's 
blood  to  spare; 

To  spare  his  blood,  while  tombless  still  our  slaughtered 
kin  implore 

“Graves  and  revenge"  from  Gobbin-Cliffs  and  Car- 
rick's  bloody  shore! 

Pity!  could  we  “forget- forgive"  if  we  were  clods  of 
clay 

Our  martyred  priests,  our  banished  chiefs,  our  race  in 
dark  decay? 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  93 


And  worse  than  all,  you  know  it,  priest — the  daughters 
of  our  land, 

With  wrongs  we  blushed  to  name  until  the  sword 
was  in  our  hand! 

Pity!  well  if  you  needs  must  whine,  let  pity  have  its 
way. 

Pity  for  all  our  comrades  true,  far  from  our  side  to- 
day; 

The  prison-bound  who  rot  in  chains,  the  faithful  dead 
who  poured 

Their  blood  ’neath  Temple’s  lawless  axe  or  Parsons’ 
ruffian  sword. 

They  smote  us  with  the  swearer’s  oath,  and  with  the 
murderer’s  knife. 

We  in  the  open  field  will  fight,  fairly  for  land  and 
life; 

But,  by  the  Dead  and  all  their  wrongs,  and  by  our 
hopes  today, 

One  of  us  twain  shall  fight  their  last,  or  be  it  we  or 
they. 

They  bann’d  our  faith,  they  bann’d  our  lives,  they  trod 
us  into  earth. 

Until  our  very  patience  stirred  their  bitter  hearts  to 
mirth ; 

Even  this  great  flame  that  wraps  them  now,  not  we 
but  they  have  bred; 

Yes,  this  is  their  own  work,  and  now,  their  work  be 
on  their  head. 

Nay,  Father,  tell  us  not  of  help  from  Leinster’s  Nor- 
man Peers, 

If  that  we  shape  our  holy  cause  to  match  their  selfish 
fears — 


94  BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND 


Helpless  and  hopeless  be  their  cause,  who  brook  a 
vain  delay, 

Our  ship  is  launched,  our  flag's  afloat,  whether  they 
come  or  stay. 

Let  Silken  Howth  and  savage  Slane  still  kiss  their 
tyrant's  rod, 

And  pale  Dunsany  still  prefer  his  Master  to  his  God ; 

Little  we  heed  their  fathers’  sons,  the  Marchmen  of 
the  Pale, 

If  Irish  hearts  and  Irish  hands  have  Spanish  blades 
and  mail. 

Then  let  them  stay  to  bow  and  fawn,  or  fight  with 
cunning  words; 

I fear  me  more  their  courtly  arts  than  England's  hire- 
ling swords; 

Natheless  their  creed  they  hate  us  still,  as  the  despoiler 
hates. 

Could  they  love  us  and  love  their  prey — our  kinsmen's 
lost  estates! 

Our  rude  array's  a jagged  rock  to  smash  the  spoiler's 
power, 

Or  need  we  aid.  His  aid  we  have  who  doomed  this 
gracious  hour; 

Of  yore  He  led  His  Hebrew  host  to  peace  through 
strife  and  pain, 

And  us  He  leads  the  self-same  path,  the  self-same  goal 
to  gain. 

s 

Down  from  the  sacred  hills  whereon  a Saint  com- 
muned with  God, 

Up  from  the  vale  where  Bagnall's  blood  manured  the 
reeking  sod, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  95 


Out  from  the  stately  woods  of  Truagh,  M’Kenna’s 
plundered  home, 

Like  Malin’s  waves,  as  fierce  and  fast,  our  faithful 
clansmen  come. 

Then,  brethren,  on! — O’Neill's  dear  shade  would 
frown  to  see  you  pause — 

Our  banished  Hugh,  our  martyred  Hugh,  lie’s  watch- 
ing o’er  your  cause — 

His  gen’rous  error  lost  the  land — he  deem’d  the  Nor- 
man true, 

Oh,  forward!  friends,  it  must  not  lose  the  land  again 
in  you ! 

— C.  G avail  Duffy. 


Owen  Roe  O’Neill,  nephew  of  Hugh  O’Neill,  was, 
as  I have  already  insinuated,  from  the  military  stand- 
point, the  brain  and  the  strong  right  arm  of  the  Con- 
federation of  Kilkenny.  O11  the  6th  of  June,  1646,  he 
engaged  General  Monro  and  his  army  in  battle,  and 
though  commanding  an  inferior  force,  by  sheer  gener- 
alship won  a signal  victory.  Rinnucini  sent  the  glad 
tidings  to  Rome,  and  the  Pope,  to  show  his  apprecia- 
tion, sent  to  Owen  Roe  from  Rome  the  sword  of  his 
uncle  Hugh,  which  had  been  treasured  there.  Not- 
withstanding the  dissensions  that  arose  between  Nor- 
man and  native  Irish,  Owen  kept  his  army  in  the  field 
in  good  fighting  condition  and  was  actually  on  the 
march  from  the  north  of  Ireland  to  the  relief  of  Wex- 
ford, when  he  fell  ill  of  gout.  For  some  days  he 
was  carried  on  a litter  at  the  head  of  his  army.  But 
at  last  he  took  shelter  at  Clough-Oughter  Castle  and 


96  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


there  on  the  6th  day  of  November,  1649,  he  died,  be- 
ing at  the  time  about  fifty  )^ears  of  age.  The  rumor 
spread  abroad  that  he  had  been  poisoned  and  the  fol- 
lowing aims  to  express  at  once  the  fury  and  the  con- 
sternation and  grief  of  the  Irish  clansmen  at  the 
treacherous  taking-off  of  their  beloved  leader: 

LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  EOGHAN 
RUADH  O’NEILL.  * 

“Did  they  dare,  did  they  dare,  to  slay  Eoghan  Ruadh 
O’Neill  ?” 

“Yes,  they  slew  with  poison  him  they  feared  to  meet 
with  steel.” 

“May  God  wither  up  their  hearts ! May  their  blood 
cease  to  flow! 

May  they  walk  in  living  death,  who  poisoned  Eoghan 
Ruadh ! 

“Though  it  break  my  heart  to  hear,  say  again  the  bit- 
ter words.” 

“From  Derry,  against  Cromwell,  he  marched  to  mea- 
sure swords; 

But  the  weapon  of  the  Sassanach  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  he  died  at  Cloch  Uachtar,  upon  St.  Leonard’s 
Day.” 

“Wail,  wail,  ye  for  the  Mighty  One!  Wail,  wail  ye 
for  the  dead; 

Quench  the  hearth,  and  hold  the  breath,  with  ashes 
strew  the  head. 

How  tenderly  we  loved  him!  How  deeply  we  de- 
plore ! 

Holy  Saviour ! but  to  think  we  shall  never  see  him 
more ! 

* A.  D.  1649. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  97 


“Sagest  in  the  council  was  he,  kindest  in  the  hall ; 

Sure  we  never  won  a battle — 'twas  Eoghan  won  them 
all. 

Had  he  lived — had  he  lived — our  dear  country  had 
been  free; 

But  he's  dead,  but  he's  dead,  and  'tis  slaves  we'll  ever 
be. 

“O'Farrell  and  Clanrickarde,  Preston  and  Red  Hugh, 

Audley  and  McMahon — ye  are  valiant,  wise  and  true ; 

But — what,  what  are  ye  all  to  our  darling  who  is 
gone? 

The  rudder  of  our  ship  was  he,  our  castle's  corner- 
stone ! 

“Wail,  wail  him  through  the  Island!  Weep,  weep  for 
our  pride! 

Would  that  on  the  battlefield,  our  gallant  chief  had 
died ! 

Weep  the  Victor  of  Beann-bhorbh — weep  him,  young 
men  and  old ; 

Weep  for  him,  ye  women,  your  Beautiful  lies  cold ! 

“We  thought  you  would  not  die,  we  were  sure  you 
would  not  go 

And  leave  us  in  our  utmost  need  to  Cromwell's  cruel 
blow. 

Sheep  without  a shepherd  when  the  snow  shuts  out 
the  sky — 

Oh!  why  did  you  leave  us,  Eoghan?  why  did  you  die? 

“Soft  as  woman's  was  your  voice,  O’Neill;  bright  was 
your  eye; 

Oh!  why  did  you  leave  us,  Eoghan,  why  did  you  die? 

Your  troubles  are  all  over,  you're  at  rest  with  God 
on  high; 

But  we're  slaves,  and  we're  orphans,  Eoghan! — why 
did  you  die?"  — Thomas  Davis. 


98  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


When  James  VI.  of  Scotland  became  King  of  Eng- 
land as  James  I.,  the  Irish  people,  not  without  some 
show  of  reason,  expected  that  the  son  of  the  perse- 
cuted and  martyred  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  would 
show  favor  to  the  Irish  Catholics.  They  were,  how- 
ever, soon  undeceived,  and  the  first  wholesale  confisca- 
tion of  Irish  land  took  place  during  his  reign  and  at 
his  suggestion.  Scotch  and  English  Protestants  were 
introduced  into  Ulster  as  settlers  and  the  rents  went  to 
certain  London  companies.  This  is  what  is  known  as 
the  Plantation  of  Ulster.  After  the  death  of  Crom- 
well the  Stuarts  were  restored  to  the  English  throne 
in  the  person  of  Charles  II.  He  was  succeeded  by 
his  brother,  James  II.,  in  some  respects*  a brave,  but 
headstrong  and  incompetent  man,  who,  however,  being 
a Catholic  himself,  was  decidedly  favorable  to  Catho- 
lic interests  both  in  England  and  Ireland.  When 
William  of  Orange,  his  son-in-law,  was  called  to  the 
English  throne,  the  Irish  espoused  the  cause  of  James. 
When  his  cause  was  lost  in  England,  he  crossed  over 
to  Ireland  and  gathered  about  him  a fine  army,  but 
of  course  without  the  equipment  that  William’s  army 
could  command.  A great  battle  was  fought  at  the 
River  Boyne,  which  resulted  in  the  defeat  of  the  Irish 
forces,  owing  largely  to  the  poor  judgment  of  King 
James.  When  James  was  turning  his  rein  in  flight, 
Sarsfield,  the  commander  of  the  Irish  Horse,  is  said 
to  have^  exclaimed  in  bitterness : “Change  kings,  and 
we  will  fight  it  over  again,”  and  even  English  and 
Orange  authorities  think  he  was  right  in  his  estimate 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  99 


of  things.  The  following  ballad  is  written  from  the 
Orange  standpoint;  but  there  is  a sympathetic  allu- 
sion to  the  heart-wrung  cry  of  the  Irish  leader.  The 
Battle  of  the  Boyne,  remains,  however,  a landmark, 
as  it  were,  in  Irish  history.  It  was  fought  on  July  1, 
1690. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BOYNE. 

It  was  upon  a summer’s  morn,  unclouded  rose  the 
sun, 

And  lightly  o’er  the  waving  corn,  their  way  the  breezes 
won ; 

Sparkling  beneath  that  orient  beam,  ’mid  banks  of 
verdure  gay, 

Its  eastward  course  a silver  stream  held  smilingly 
away. 

A kingly  host  upon  its  side  a monarch  camp’d  around. 

Its  southern  upland  far  and  wide  their  white  pavilions 
crowned ; 

Not  long  that  sky  unclouded  show’d,  nor  long  beneath 
the  ray 

That  gentle  stream  in  silver  flowed,  to  meet  the  new- 
born day. 

Through  yonder  fairy-haunted  glen,  from  out  that  dark 
ravine, 

Is  heard  the  tread  of  marching  men,  the  gleam  of 
arms  is  seen; 

And  splashing  forth  in  bright  array  along  yon  verdant 
banks, 

All  eager  for  the  coming  fray,  are  rang’d  the  martial 
ranks, 


ioo  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Peals  the  loud  gun — its  thunders  boom  the  echoing 
vales  along, 

While  curtain’d  in  its  sulph’rous  gloom  moves  on  the 
gallant  throng; 

And  foot  and  horse  in  mingled  mass,  regardless  all 
of  life, 

With  furious  ardour  onward  pass  to  join  the  deadly 
strife. 

Nor  strange  that  with  such  ardent  flame  each  glowing 
heart  beats  high, 

Their  battle  word  is  William’s  name,  and  “Death  or 
Liberty!” 

Then,  Oldbridge,  then  thy  peaceful  bowers  with 
sounds  unwonted  rang, 

And,  Tredagh,  ’mid  thy  distant  towers,  was  heard  the 
mighty  clang. 

The  silver  stream  is  crimson’d  wide,  and  clogg’d  with 
many  a corse, 

As  floating  down  its  gentle  tide  come  mingled  man 
and  horse. 

Now  fiercer  grows  the  battle  rage,  the  guarded  stream 
is  cross’d, 

And  furious,  hand  to  hand  engage  each  bold  contend- 
ing host. 

He  falls — the  veteran  hero*  falls,  renowned  along  the 
Rhine- — 

And  he,**  whose  name,  while  Derry’s  walls  endure, 
shall  brightly  shine. 

Oh!  would  to  heav’n  that  churchman  bold,  his  arms 
with  triumph  blest, 

The  soldier  spirit  had  controll’d  that  fir’d  his  pious 
breast. 

* Duke  Schomberg. 


**  Walker — a preacher. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND  ioi 


And  he*  the  chief  of  yonder  brave  and  persecuted 
band, 

Who  foremost  rush’d  amid  the  wave,  and  gain’d  the 
hostile  strand; 

He  bleeds,  brave  Caillemotte — he  bleeds — ’tis  clos’d, 
his  bright  career, 

Yet  still  that  band  to  glorious  deeds  his  dying  accents 
cheer. 


And  now  that  well  contested  strand  successive  col- 
umns gain, 

While  backward  James’s  yielding  band  are  borne 
across  the  plain. 

In  vain  the  sword  Green  Erin  draws,  and  life  away 
doth  fling — 

Oh ! worthy  of  a better  cause  and  of  a bolder  king. 


In  vain  thy  bearing  bold  is  shown  upon  that  blood- 
stain’d  ground ; 

Thy  tow’ring  hopes  are  overthrown,  thy  choicest  fall 
around. 

Nor,  shamed,  abandon  thou  the  fray,  nor  blush,  though 
conquer’d  there, 

A power  against  thee  fights  today  no  mortal  arm  may 
dare. 


Nay,  look  not  to  that  distant  height  in  hope  of  com- 
ing aid — 

The  dastard  thence  has  ta’en  his  flight,  and  left  thee  all 
betray’d. 

Hurrah!  Hurrah!  the  victor  shout  is  heard  on  high 
Donore ; 

Down  Platten’s  vale,  in  hurried  rout,  thy  shatter’d 
masses  pour. 

* Caillemotte — a Huguenot. 


102  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


But  many  a gallant  spirit  there  retreats  across  the 
plain. 

Who,  change  but  kings,  would  gladly  dare  that  battle- 
field again. 

Enough ! enough ! the  victor  cries ; your  fierce  pursuit 
forbear, 

Let  grateful  prayer  to  heaven  arise  and  vanquished 
freemen  spare. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  liberty,  for  her  the  sword  we 
drew, 

And  dared  the  battle,  while  on  high  our  Orange  ban- 
ners flew; 

Woe  worth  the  hour — woe  worth  the  state,  when  men 
shall  cease  to  join, 

With  grateful  hearts  to  celebrate  the  glories  of  the 
Boyne. 

— Colonel  Blacker . 


After  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  James  fled  to 
France,  and  the  Irish  soldiers  fell  back  upon  Limerick 
City,  determined  to  continue  the  struggle  in  their  own 
interest.  They  were  accompanied  by  the  French  regi- 
ments sent  over  by  King  Louis  of  France,  which  had 
been  with  them  at  the  Boyne  but  for  some  reason  had 
taken  little  part  in  the  fight.  When  the  French  officers 
examined  the  defences  of  Limerick  they  were  unwill- 
ing to  take  shelter  behind  them.  Lauzun,  their  chief 
engineer,  declared  they  could  be  battered  down  with 
roasted  apples.  The  French  retired  to  Galway  to  take 
shipping  for  France,  all  but  one  stout-hearted  gentle- 
man, De  Boisseleau,  who  volunteered  to  remain.  When 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  103 


King  William  and  his  army  drew  up  at  last  before 
Limerick  he  expected  that  the  capture  of  the  city 
would  occupy  only  a few  days.  He  found,  however, 
that  no  matter  how  weak  the  walls  might  be  they  were 
defended  by  stout  hearts  and  willing  hands.  He  sent 
to  Waterford  for  a siege  train  of  guns  of  greater 
calibre  than  any  he  had  with  him.  Sarsfield  heard  of 
their  coming  and  started  out  of  Limerick  by  night  to 
intercept  them.  With  his  horsemen  he  lay  hidden  all 
day  among  the  hills  of  the  County  Clare,  and  at  night 
rushed  down  upon  the  convoy  and  put  them  to  the 
sword  or  to  flight.  He  piled  the  guns  together,  filled 
them  with  powder  and  blew  them  up,  and  the  noise  of 
the  explosion  carried  the  first  news  of  their  destruc- 
tion to  William's  ears.  He  sent  for  a new  train  and 
continued  the  siege,  but  without  result.  When  he 
succeeded  at  last  in  making  a practical  breach  in  the 
walls  he  found  within  the  gap  not  merely  the  men, 
but  the  women  of  Limerick,  determined  at  all  cost  to 
resist  the  invader  and  save  their  city.  Their  glorious 
valour  was  crowned  for  the  time  at  least  with  complete 
success  and  William  was  forced  to  withdraw  his  army 
and  ultimately  to  return  to  England,  leaving  the  Irish 
unsubdued.  The  following  three  ballads  have  refer- 
ence to  this  thrilling  event  in  Irish  history : 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK.* 

Oh,  hurrah ; for  the  men  who  when  danger  is  nigh, 
Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah ! for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick’s  wall, 

* A.  D.  1690. 


io4  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  hurrah ! for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 
King  William's  men  round  Limerick  lay, 
His  cannon  crashed  from  day  to  day, 

Till  the  southern  wall  was  swept  away, 

At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

'Tis  afternoon,  yet  hot  the  sun, 

When  William  fires  the  signal  gun, 

And,  like  its  flash,  his  columns  run 
On  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


Yet,  hurrah!  for  the  men  who  when  danger  is  nigh, 
Are  found  in  the  front  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah ! for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, 

And  hurrah ! for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 

The  breach  gaped  out  two  perches  wide, 

The  fosse  is  filled,  the  batteries  plied ; 

Can  the  Irishmen  that  onset  bide 
At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas? 

Across  the  ditch  the  columns  dash, 

Their  bayonets  o'er  the  rubbish  flash, 

When  sudden  comes  a rending  crash 
From  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


Then,  hurrah ! for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is  nigh, 
Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah ! for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, 

And  hurrah ! for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 

The  bullets  rain  in  pelting  shower, 

And  rocks  and  beams  from  wall  and  tower ; 

The  Englishmen  are  glad  to  cower 
At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

But  rallied  soon,  again  they  pressed, 

Their  bayonets  pierced  full  many  a breast, 

Till  they  bravely  won  the  breach's  crest 
At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  105 


Yet,  hurrah!  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is  nigh, 
Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah ! for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick’s  wall, 

And  hurrah ! for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 
Then  fiercer  grew  the  Irish  yell, 

And  madly  on  the  foe  they  fell, 

Till  the  breach  grew  like  the  jaws  of  hell — 

Not  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

The  women  fought  before  the  men, 

Each  man  became  a match  for  ten, 

So  back  they  pushed  the  villains  then, 

From  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


Then,  hurrah ! for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is  nigh, 
Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah!  for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick’s  wall, 

And  hurrah ! for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 
But  Brandenburgh  the  ditch  has  crost, 

And  gained  our  flank  at  little  cost. 

The  bastion’s  gone — the  town  is  lost ; 

Oh ! poor  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

When,  sudden,  Sarsfield  springs  the  mine, 

Like  rockets  rise  the  Germans  fine, 

And  come  down  dead  ’mid  smoke  and  shine, 

At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

So,  hurrah!  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is  nigh, 
Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah ! for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick’s  wall, 

And  hurrah ! for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 

Out,  with  a roar,  the  Irish  sprung, 

And  back  the  beaten  English  flung, 

Till  William  fled,  his  lords  among, 

From  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

’Twas  thus  was  fought  that  glorious  fight, 


io6  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


By  Irishmen,  for  Ireland’s  right — 

May  all  such  days  have  such  a night 
As  the  battle  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

— Thomas  Davis. 


A BALLAD  OF  SARSFIELD;  OR,  THE  BURST- 
ING OF  THE  GUNS.  * 

Sarsfield  went  out  the  Dutch  to  rout, 

And  to  take  and  break  their  cannon; 

To  Mass  went  he  at  half-past  three, 

And  at  four  he  crossed  the  Shannon. 

Tirconnel  slept.  In  dream  his  thoughts 
Of  fields  of  victory  ran  on; 

And  the  chieftain  of  Thomond  in  Limerick’s  towers 
Slept  well  by  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

He  rode  ten  miles  and  he  cross’d  the  ford, 

And  couch’d  in  the  wood  and  waited  ; 

Till,  left  and  right,  on  march’d  in  sight 
That  host  which  the  true  man  hated. 

“Charge !”  Sarsfield  cried ; and  the  green  hill-side 
As  they  charged  replied  in  thunder ; 

They  rode  o’er  the  plain  and  they  rode  o’er  the  slain, 
And  the  rebel  rout  lay  under ! 

He  burn’d  the  gear  the  knaves  held  dear, — 

For  his  king  he  fought,  not  plunder; 

With  powder  he  cramm’d  the  guns,  and  ramm’d 
Their  mouths  the  red  soil  under. 

The  spark  flash’d  out — like  a nation’s  shout, 

The  sound  into  heaven  ascended ; 

* A.  D.  1690. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND  107 


The  hosts  of  the  sky  made  to  each  reply, 

And  the  thunders  twain  were  blended ! 

Sarsfield  went  out  the  Dutch  to  rout, 

And  to  take  and  break  their  cannon, — 

A century  after,  Sarsfield’s  laughter 
Was  echo’d  from  Dungannon. 

— Aubrey  de  V ere. 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK. 

He  grasped  his  ponderous  hammer,  he  could  not  stand 
it  more, 

To  hear  the  bombshells  bursting,  and  thundering  bat- 
tle’s roar; 

He  said,  “The  breach  they’re  mounting,  the  Dutch- 
man’s murdering  crew — 

I’ll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads,  and  see  what  that 
can  do ! 

“Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up  that  iron 
well, 

’Tis  Sarsfield’s  horse  that  wants  the  shoes,  so  mind 
not  shot  or  shell.” 

“Ah,  sure,”  cried  both,  “the  horse  can  wait — for  Sars- 
field’s on  the  wall, 

And  where  you  go,  we’ll  follow,  with  you  to  stand  or 
fall !” 

The  blacksmith  raised  his  hammer,  and  rushed  into 
the  street, 

His  ’prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless  foe  to 
meet — 

High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick,  with  dauntless  hearts 
they  stood, 

Where  bombshells  burst,  and  shot  fell  thick,  and  redly 
ran  the  blood. 


io8  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


“Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran,  and  mark  you, 
swarthy  Ned, 

This  day  we’ll  prove  the  thickness  of  many  a Dutch- 
man’s head! 

Hurrah ! upon  their  bloody  path  they’re  mounting  gal- 
lantly ; 

And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave  him  to 
this  and  me!” 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a captain 
brave, — * 

A captain  of  the  grenadiers,  with  blood-stained  dirk 
and  glaive; 

He  pointed,  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in  vain, 

For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  hammer  found 
his  brain! 

The  next  that  topped  the  rampart,  he  was  a colonel 
bold, 

Bright,  through  the  dust  of  battle,  his  helmet  flashed 
with  gold. 

“Gold  is  no  match  for  iron,”  the  doughty  blacksmith 
said, 

As  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked  his  foe- 
man’s  head. 

“Hurrah  for  gallant  Limerick!”  black  Ned  and  Moran 
cried, 

As  on  the  Dutchmen’s  leaden  heads  their  hammers 
well  they  plied. 

A bombshell  burst  between  them — one  fell  without  a 
groan, 

One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the  breach  was 
thrown. 

“Brave  smith ! brave  smith !”  cried  Sarsfield,  “beware 
the  treacherous  mine! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  109 


Brave  smith!  brave  smith!  fall  backward,  or  surely 
death  is  thine !” 

The  smith  sprang  up  the  rampart,  and  leaped  the  blood- 
stained wall. 

As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foeman,  breach, 
and  all ! 

Up,  like  a red  volcano,  they  thundered  wild  and  high, — 

Spear,  gun,  and  shattered  standard,  and  foeman 
through  the  sky; 

And  dark  and  bloody  was  the  shower  that  round  the 
blacksmith  fell; — 

He  thought  upon  his  'prentice  boys — they  were  avenged 
well. 

On  foeman  and  defenders  a silence  gathered  down; 

'Twas  broken  by  a triumph-shout  that  shook  the  an- 
cient town, 

As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged  and 
slew, 

And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what  Irish 
hearts  could  do ! 

Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto  the  river 
side ; 

He  hammered  on  the  foe's  pontoon  to  sink  it  in  the 
tide ; 

The  timber  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took  no  crack 
or  strain; 

“Mavrone ! 'twon't  break,"  the  blacksmith  roared ; “I'll 
try  their  heads  again !” 

He  rushed  upon  the  flying  ranks — his  hammer  ne'er 
was  slack, 

For  in  through  blood  and  bone  it  crashed,  through  hel- 
met and  through  jack; — 


no  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


He’s  ta’en  a Holland  captain,  beside  the  red  pontoon, 

And  “Wait  you  here,”  he  boldly  cries;  “I’ll  send  you 
back  full  soon ! 

“Dost  see  this  gory  hammer?  It  cracked  some  skulls 
today, 

And  yours  ’twill  crack  if  you  don’t  stand  and  list  to 
what  I say: — 

Here ! take  it  to  your  cursed  king,  and  tell  him  softly 
too, 

’Twould  be  acquainted  with  his  skull,  if  he  were  here, 
not  you!” 

The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy,  and  blew  his  bel- 
lows strong; 

He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o’er  it  sang  no 
song. 

“Ochone!  my  boys  are  dead,”  he  cried;  “their  loss 
I’ll  long  deplore, 

But  comfort’s  in  my  heart — their  graves  are  red  with 
foreign  gore!” 

— R.  D.  Joyce. 


The  town  of  Athlone,  in  the  center  of  Ireland,  was 
twice  besieged  during  the  course  of  the  Williamite  war 
— once  before  the  first  siege  of  Limerick  and  a second 
time  after  it.  King  William,  disgusted  by  his  failure 
at  Limerick,  had  gone  to  England,  whence  he  sent  all 
necessary  supplies  to  General  Ginckle,  his  commander, 
in  Ireland.  The  Irish  also  had  received  some  neces- 
sary supplies  from  France  and  the  services  of  a brave 
but  vain  and  unfortunate  general  officer  named  St. 
Ruth.  The  English  advanced  upon  Athlone,  battered 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  m 


down  the  walls  of  the  English  side  of  the  town,  and 
would  have  forced  their  way  to  the  Irish  side  in  Con- 
naught if  the  heroic  bravery  of  some  companies  of  Irish 
soldiery  had  not  withstood  them.  The  two  portions  of 
the  town  were  connected  by  a stone  bridge  over  the 
Shannon.  These  companies  held  the  English  forces  at 
bay  in  front  while  their  comrades  tore  down  the  arches 
behind.  When  at  last  the  bridge  was  destroyed  they 
threw  away  their  arms,  leaped  into  the  river  and  swam 
to  safety.  This  was  a glorious  feat,  but  a still  braver 
one  was  yet  to  come.  The  English  managed  to  repair 
the  bridge  with  planks,  under  cover  of  night  and  a 
heavy  bombardment.  Dismay  took  possession  of  the 
Irish  when  they  discovered  what  had  been  done.  But 
a gallant  Irish  soldier  asked  if  there  were  ten  men 
willing  to  die  for  Ireland.  A hundred  answered  in 
reply.  Sergeant  Custume  and  his  ten  gallant  com- 
rades dashed  upon  the  bridge  and  set  to  work.  A vol- 
ley laid  them  low.  Eleven  others  took  their  places; 
another  English  volley,  and  nine  more  are  lying  dead ; 
but  the  work  is  done — Athlone  for  the  time  is  saved. 
A romantic  legend  tells  us  how  well  Horatius  and  his 
comrades  kept  the  bridge  over  the  Tiber  against  Lars 
Porsena,  “in  the  brave  days  of  old,”  but  sober  history 
tells  us  the  story  of  Custume  and  his  brave  comrades. 
This  incident  is  the  subject  of  the  following  ballad: 

A BALLAD  OF  ATHLONE.  * 

Does  any  man  dream  that  a Gael  can  fear, 

Of  a thousand  deeds  let  him  learn  but  one ! 

* A.  D.  1691. 


1 12  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


The  Shannon  swept  onward,  broad  and  clear, 
Between  the  Leaguers  and  worn  Athlone. 

“Break  down  the  bridge !”  six  warriors  rushed 
Through  the  storm  of  shot  and  the  storm  of  shell ; 
With  late,  but  certain,  victory  flushed 
The  grim  Dutch  gunners  eyed  them  well. 

They  wrenched  at  the  planks  ’mid  a hail  of  fire ; 

They  fell  in  death,  their  work  half  done ; 

The  bridge  stood  fast;  and  nigh  and  nigher 
The  foe  swarmed  darkly,  densely  on. 

“Oh,  who  for  Erin  will  strike  a stroke? 

Who  hurl  yon  planks  where  the  waters  roar?” 
Six  warriors  forth  from  their  comrades  broke, 

And  flung  them  upon  that  bridge  once  more. 

Again  at  the  rocking  planks  they  dashed ; 

And  four  dropped  dead,  and  two  remained ; 

The  huge  beams  groaned,  and  the  arch  down 
crashed ; 

Two  stalwart  swimmers  the  margin  gained. 

# 

St.  Ruth  in  his  stirrups  stood  up  and  cried, 

“I  have  seen  no  deed  like  that  in  France!” 

With  a toss  of  his  head  Sarsfield  replied, 

“They  had  luck,  the  dogs ! ’Twas  a merry  chance !” 

Oh ! many  a year  upon  Shannon’s  side 

They  sang  upon  moor,  and  they  sang  upon  heath, 
Of  the  twain  that  breasted  that  raging  tide, 

And  the  ten  that  shook  bloody  hands  with  Death ! 

— Aubrey  de  V ere. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OK  IRELAND  113 


St.  Ruth,  through  over-confidence,  at  last  lost  Ath- 
lone,  and  afterwards  the  battle  of  Aughrim  on  the  12th 
of  July,  1691.  He  died  heading  a charge  for  victory, 
and  as  no  one  knew  his  plans  and  Sarsfield  had  been 
posted  at  a distance  and  commanded  not  to  move  with- 
out distinct  orders,  there  was  no  replacing  him.  The 
victory  that  had  almost  perched  upon  the  Irish  banners 
turned  back  affrighted  and  took  refuge  with  the  En- 
glish enemy.  The  Irish  once  more  fell  back  upon 
Limerick.  That  fated  city  underwent  another  siege,  this 
time,  however,  unsuccessfully,  notwithstanding  the 
bravery  of  citizens  and  soldiery.  Sarsfield  made  a 
treaty  with  General  Ginckle,  but  had  hardly  done  so 
when  he  heard  that  a French  fleet  had  arrived  under 
the  walls  of  Limerick.  The  Treaty  Stone  of  Limerick 
is  a perennial  monument  of  Irish  fidelity  and  English 
prevarication;  for  the  treaty  was  broken  before  “the 
ink  wherewith  ’twas  writ  was  dry.” 


THE  TREATY  STONE  OF  LIMERICK* 

The  treaty  stone  of  Limerick ! what  mem’ries  of  the 
past 

Flash’d  through  my  soul,  when  first  on  it  mv  eves  I 
fondly  cast! 

To  see  it  proudly  standing  by  the  lordly  Shannon’s 
flood, 

And  think  that  there  for  centuries  the  grey  old  stone 
had  stood! 

How  breathless  did  I listen  while  my  fancy  heard  it 
tell, 

* A.  D.  1691. 


1 14  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Of  all  that,  erst,  ’micl  strife  and  storm,  the  olden  town 
befell ; 

Since  proud  Le  Gros1  bold  kinsman  crossed  the  azure 
stream  alone, 

Till  Chateau  Renaud’s  frigate  weighed,  besides  the 
Treaty  Stone. 

The  Treaty  Stone  of  Limerick!  the  monument  un- 
built, 

Of  Irish  might,  and  Irish  right — and  Saxon  shame 
and  guilt — 

That  saw  the  Prince  of  Orange  the  siege  obliged  to 
raise, 

And  leave  his  wounded  Brandenburghs  to  perish  in 
the  blaze, 

When  the  storied  maids  and  matrons  rushed  fear- 
less on  the  foe, 

At  the  breach  where  fell  their  kinsmen,  by  the  side 
of  Boisseleau — 

That  saw  the  vet’ran  conqueror  of  Aughrim  and 
Athlone 

Forced  to  comply  with  D’Usson’s  terms — the  aged 
Treaty  Stone. 

The  Treaty  Stone  of  Limerick!  the  ancient  city’s 
pride, 

That  oft  rang  loud  with  clash  of  steel,  and  oft  with 
blood  was  dyed ; 

That  saw  the  hope  of  Lucan’s  Earl — his  own  un- 
conquer’d band — 

With  stern  resolve,  but  broken  hearts,  around  it  take 
their  stand, 

That  saw  him  sign  the  treaty,  and  saw  him  sign  in 
vain ; 

For  shamefully  ’twas  broken,  ere  the  Wild  Geese 
reach’d  the  main, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  115 


That  witnessed  the  departure  and  heard  the  wild 
Ochone, 

As  Louis's  ships  dropp'd  down  the  tide  that  washed 
the  Treaty  Stone. 

The  Treaty  Stone  of  Limerick  ! — that  oft,  with  magic 
charm, 

Lit  up  in  wrath  the  Irish  heart,  and  nerv’d  the  Irish 
arm. 

What  hewed,  in  scores,  at  Fontenoy,  King  George’s 
cohorts  down, 

But  burning  thoughts  of  thee,  and  home- — the  treaty 
riven  town  ? 

And  0I1 ! how  Sarsfield’s  great  heart  throbb’d  on  Lan  - 
den's  bloody  field, 

That  fast  for  thee,  for  fatherland,  his  life  stream  he 
could  yield. 

Thrice  holier  than  the  treasure  robbed  by  England’s 
King  from  Scone, 

Is  the  glory  of  Old  Limerick — the  hallowed  Treaty 
Stone ! 

— Anon. 


The  Irish  soldiers  of  Limerick  were  given  their 
choice  of  transportation  to  France  or  service  in  the 
armies  of  King  William.  Of  the  14,000  men  who 
marched  out  of  Limerick  only  one  full  regiment  and  a 
handful  of  individual  soldiers  volunteered  for  En- 
glish service.  The  vast  majority  chose  exile  rather 
than  such  a degradation.  The  Irish  recruits  were 
known  afterwards  as  the  “Wild  Geese"  and,  as  we  shall 
see,  they  did  most  efficient  service  for  the  monarchs  un- 
der whose  banners  they  fought.  The  following  ballads 


n6  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


represent — the  one  the  manly  grief  of  the  exiled  sol 
dier,  the  other  the  wail  of  Irish  women  over  the  de 
parture  of  their  loved  ones : 

A SONG  OF  THE  BRIGADE  * 

I snatched  a stone  from  the  bloodied  brook 
And  hurled  it  at  my  household  door! 

No  farewell  of  my  love  I took; 

I shall  see  my  friends  no  more.  * 

I dashed  across  the  church-yard  bound; 

I knelt  not  by  my  parents’  graves ; 

There  rang  from  my  heart  a clarion’s  sound 
That  summoned  me  o’er  the  waves. 

No  land  to  me  can  native  be 
That  strangers  trample  and  tyrants  stain: 

When  the  valleys  I loved  are  cleansed  and  free 
They  are  mine,  they  are  mine  again ! 

Till  then  in  sunshine  and  sunless  weather, 

By  Seine  and  Loire,  and,  the  broad  Garonne, 
My  war-horse  and  I roam  on  together 
Wherever  God  wills.  On!  On! 

— Aubrey  de  V ere. 


THE  WILD  GEESE  * 

How  solemn  sad  by  Shannon’s  flood 
The  blush  of  morning  sun  appears ! 
To  men  who  gave  for  us  their  blood, 

Ah ! what  can  woman  give  but  tears  ? 
How  still  the  field  of  battle  lies ! 

No  shouts  upon  the  breeze  are  blown ! 

* A.  D.  1691. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  117 


We  heard  our  dying  country’s  cries, 

We  sit  deserted  and  alone. 

Ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone, 

Ogh  hone,  etc. 

Ah!  what  can  woman  give  but  tears! 

Why  thus  collected  on  the  strand 
Whom  yet  the  God  of  mercy  saves, 

Will  ye  forsake  your  native  land? 

Will  ye  desert  your  brothers’  graves? 

Their  graves  give  forth  a fearful  groan — 

Oh ! guard  your  orphans  and  your  wives ; 

Like  us  make  Erin’s  cause  your  own, 

Like  us  for  her  yield  up  your  lives. 

Ogh  hone,  ogh  hon£,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone, 

Ogh  hone,  etc. 

Like  us  for  her  yield  up  your  lives. 

— Dr.  Drennan . 


As  has  been  already  stated,  the  native  Irish  princes 
and  the  Anglo-Norman  nobles  built  and  endowed  from 
their  own  resources  many  of  the  glorious  monasteries 
whose  majestic  remains  are  to  be  found  to  this  day 
everywhere  throughout  Ireland  in  the  sad  condition 
portrayed  in  the  following  lament.  When  Henry  VIII., 
of  England,  fell  out  with  the  Pope  because  he  would 
not  declare  null  his  marriage  with  Catharine  of  Arra- 
gon,  and  proclaimed  himself  head  of  the  Church  in 
England,  he  took  occasion  from  the  fact  to'  plunder  the 
monasteries  along  with  persecuting  those  who  resisted 
his  assumption  of  spiritual  authority.  His  course  of 
procedure  was  the  same  in  Ireland ; men  were  harassed 
because  of  their  fidelity  to  the  Pope  and  the  monas- 


1 18  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


teries  were  plundered  of  their  most  precious  posses- 
sions. What  began  in  the  days  of  Henry  VIII.  con- 
tinued under  his  successors  until  at  last  every  mon- 
astic institution  was  as  empty  and  desolate  as  that  of 
Timoleague.  Many  of  them  are  still  perfect  in  out- 
line— but  they  all  speak  alike  the  faith  of  their  foun- 
ders— the  vandalism  of  their  destroyers. 

LAMENT  OVER  THE  RUINS  OF  THE  ABBEY 
TIMOLEAGUE. 

(From  the  Irish.) 

Lone  and  weary  as  I wandered  by  the  bleak  shore 
of  the  sea, 

Meditating  and  reflecting  on  the  world's  hard  des- 
tiny, 

Forth  the  moon  and  stars  'gan  glimmer,  in  the  quiet 
tide  beneath, 

For  on  slumbering  spring  and  blossom  breathed  not 
out  of  heaven  a breath. 

On  I went  in  sad  dejection,  careless  where  my  foot- 
steps bore. 

Till  a ruined  church  before  me  opened  wide  its  an- 
cient door, — 

Till  I stood  before  the  portals,  where  of  old  were 
wont  to  be, 

For  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  leper,  alms  and  hospi- 
tality. 

Still  the  ancient  seat  was  standing,  built  against  the 
buttress  grey, 

Where  the  clergy  used  to  welcome  weary  travellers 
on  their  way; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  119 


There  I sat  me  down  in  sadness,  ’neath  my  cheek 
I placed  my  hand, 

Till  the  tears  fell  hot  and  briny  down  upon  the  grassy 
land. 

There,  I said  in  woeful  sorrow,  weeping  bitterly  the 
while, 

Was  a time  when  joy  and  gladness  reigned  within 
this  ruined  pile ; — 

Was  a time  when  bells  were  tinkling,  clergy  preach- 
ing peace  abroad, 

Psalms  a-singing,  music  ringing  praises  to  the 
mighty  God. 

Empty  aisle,  deserted  chancel,  tower  tottering  to 
1 your  fall, 

Many  a storm  since  then  has  beaten  on  the  grey  head 
of  your  wall ! 

Many  a bitter  storm  and  tempest  has  your  roof-tree 
turned  away, 

Since  you  first  were  formed  a temple  to  the  Lord  of 
night  and  day. 

Holy  house  of  ivied  gables,  that  were  once  the  coun- 
try’s boast, 

Houseless  now  in  weary  wandering  are  your  scat- 
tered, saintly  host; 

Lone  you  are  to-day,  and  dismal, — joyful  psalms  no 
more  are  heard, 

Where,  within  your  choir,  her  vesper  screeches  the 
cat-headed  bird. 

Ivy  from  your  eaves  is  growing,  nettles  round  your 
green  hearthstone, 

Foxes  howl  where,  in  your  corners,  dropping  waters 
make  their  moan. 


120  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 

Where  the  lark  to  early  matins  used  your  clergy 
forth  to  call, 

There,  alas ! no  tongue  is  stirring  save  the  daws  up- 
on  the  wall. 

Refectory  cold  and  empty,  dormitory  bleak  and 
bare! 

Where  are  now  your  pious  uses,  simple  bed  and  fru- 
gal fare  ? 

Gone  your  abbot,  rule,  and  order,  broken  down  your 
altar  stones! 

Nought  I see  beneath  your  shelter,  save  a heap  of 
clayey  bones. 

Oh ! the  hardship — oh ! the  hatred,  tyranny,  and 
cruel  war, 

Persecution  and  oppression  that  have  left  you  as  you 
are ! 

I myself  once  also  prospered ; — mine  is,  too,  an  al- 
tered plight ; 

Trouble,  care,  and  age  have  left  me  good  for  nought 
but  grief  to-night. 

Gone,  my  motion  and  my  vigor — gone,  the  use  of 
eye  and  ear; 

At  my  feet  lie  friends  and  children  powerless  and 
corrupting  here ; 

Woe  is  written  on  my  visage,  in  a nut  my  heart 
would  lie— 

Death’s  deliverance  were  welcome — Father,  let  the 
old  man  die. 

— Samuel  Ferguson. 


The  Penal  times  in  their  wider  acceptation  include 
the  years  from  the  perversion  of  Henry  VIII.  in  the 
sixteenth  century  to  the  emancipation  of  Catholics  in 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  121 


the  nineteenth  century— a period  of  well  nigh  300 
years.  In  the  more  confined  sense  they  commence  with 
the  surrender  of  Limerick  and  the  departure  of  the 
Irish  regiments  for  France.  As  Godkin,  a Protestant 
historian,  says : “There  was  established  a code  framed 
with  the  most  diabolical  ingenuity  to  extinguish  natural 
affection — to  foster  perfidy  and  hypocrisy — to  petrify 
conscience — to  perpetuate  brutal  ignorance — to  facili- 
tate the  work  of  tyranny  by  rendering  the  vices  of 
slavery  inherent  and  natural  in  the  Irish  character/' 
The  priest  and  schoolmaster  were  banned.  No  Cath- 
olic could  be  a member  of  Parliament  or  member  of  a 
learned  profession,  could  be  a juror  or  even  a common 
soldier,  could  own  a decent  farm  or  inherit  free-hold 
property,  or  even  own  a horse  worth  more  than  twenty- 
five  dollars.  The  head  of  a priest  and  the  head  of  a 
wolf  were  valued  at  the  same  price,  and  the  meanest 
product  of  hatred — the  priest  hunter — was  encouraged. 
Education  was  also  peremptorily  forbidden.  “One  sta- 
tute prohibited  a Papist  from  instructing  another;  an- 
other prohibited  a Protestant  from  instructing  a Pap- 
ist ; a third  provided  that  no  Papist  should  be  sent  out 
of  Ireland  to  receive  instruction.  If  these  three  laws 
had  been  duly  capped  by  a fourth  ordering  for  execu- 
tion every  Papist  who  neglected  to  provide  a first-class 
education  for  his  children,  the  whole  edifice  would  have 
been  beautifully  complete  and  symmetrical."  But  the 
priest  managed  somehow  to  remain,  so  did  the  school- 
master, though  the  altar  was  often  a rude  rock,  and  the 
school  a secluded  corner  under  a hedge.  So  the  faith 


122  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


was  kept  alive  and  the  light  of  knowledge  was  not  com- 
pletely extinguished.  The  history  of  the  world  has 
nothing  more  cruel  to  show  than  the  Penal  laws. 

THE  PENAL  TIME. 

In  that  dark  time  of  cruel  wrong,  when  on  our  coun- 
try’s breast, 

A dreary  load,  a ruthless  code,  with  wasting  terrors 
press’d — 

Our  gentry,  stripp’d  of  land  and  clan,  sent  exiles  o’er 
the  main. 

To  turn  the  scales  on  foreign  fields  for  foreign  mon- 
arch’s gain — 

Our  people  trod  like  vermin  down,  all  fenceless  flung 
to  sate 

Extortion,  lust  and  brutal  whim,  and  rancorous  bigot 
hate — 

Our  priesthood  tracked  from  cave  to  hut,  like  felons 
chased  and  lashed, 

And  from  their  ministering  hands  the  lifted  chalice 
dashed ; 

In  that  black  time  of  law-wrought  crime,  of  stifling 
woe  and  thrall. 

There  stood  supreme  one  foul  device,  one  engine 
worse  than  all : 

Him  whom  they  wished  to  keep  a slave,  they  sought 
to  make  a brute — 

They  banned  the  light  of  heaven — they  bade  in- 
struction’s voice  be  mute. 

God's  second  priest,  the  Teacher — sent  to  feed  men’s 
mind  with  lore — 

They  marked  a price  upon  his  head,  as  on  the  priest’s 
before. 

Well,  well  they  knew  that  never,  face  to  face  be- 
neath the  sky, 


/ 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  123 


Could  tyranny  and  knowledge  meet,  but  one  of  them 
should  die : 

That  lettered  slaves  will  link  their  might  until  their 
murmurs  grow 

To  that  imperious  thunder-peal  which  despots  quail 
to  know ; 

That  men  who  learn  will  learn  their  strength,  the 
weakness  of  their  lords — 

Till  all  the  bonds  that  gird  them  round  are  snapt  like 
Samson's  cords. 

This  well  they  knew,  and  called  the  power  of  ignor- 
ance to  aid : 

So  might,  they  deemed,  an  abject  race  of  soulless 
serfs  be  made — 

When  Irish  memories,  hopes  and  thoughts,  were 
withered,  branch  and  stem — 

A race  of  abject,  soulless  serfs  to  hew  and  draw  for 
them. 

Ah,  God  is  good  and  nature  strong — they  let  not  thus 
decay 

The  seeds  that  deep  in  Irish  breasts  of  Irish  feeling- 
lay; 

Still  sun  and  rain  made  emerald  green  the  loveliest 
fields  on  earth. 

And  gave  the  type  of  deathless  hope,  the  little  Sham- 
rock, birth; 

Still  faithful  to  the  holy  Church,  her  direst  straits 
among, 

To  one  another  faithful  still,  the  priests  and  people 
clung, 

And  Christ  was  worshipped,  and  received  with 
trembling  haste  and  fear, 

In  field  and  shed,  with  ported  scouts  to  warn  of 
blood-hounds  near  ; 


124  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Still  crouching  ’neath  the  sheltering  hedge,  or 
stretched  on  mountain  fern, 

The  teacher  and  his  pupils  met,  feloniously  to 
learn ; 

Still  round  the  peasant’s  heart  of  hearts  his  darling 
music  twined 

A fount  of  Irish  sobs  or  smiles  in  every  note  en- 
shrined : 

And  still  beside  the  smouldering  turf  were  fond  tra- 
ditions told 

Of  heavenly  saints  and  princely  chiefs — the  power 
and  faith  of  old. 


Deep  lay  the  seeds,  yet  rankest  weeds  sprang  mingled 
— could  they  fail? 

For  what  were  freedom’s  blessed  worth,  if  slavery 
wrought  not  bale  ? 

As  thrall  and  want,  and  ignorance,  still  deep  and 
deeper  grew, 

What  marvel  weakness,  gloom  and  strife  fell  dark 
amongst  us  too. 

And  servile  thoughts,  that  measure  not  the  inborn 
wealth  of  man — 

And  servile  cringe,  and  subterfuge  to  ’scape  our 
master’s  ban ! — 

And  drunkenness — our  sense  of  woe  a little  while  to 
steep — 

And  aimless  feud,  and  murderous  plot — oh,  one 
could  pause  and  weep! 

’Mid  all  the  darkness,  faith  in  Heaven  still  shone  a 
saving  ray, 

And  Heaven  o’er  our  redemption  watched,  and  chose 
its  own  good  day. 

Two  men  were  sent  us — one  for  years,  with  Titan 
strength  of  soul. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  125 


To  beard  our  foes,  to  peal  our  wrongs,  to  band  us 
and  control. 

The  other  at  a later  time,  on  gentler  mission 
came, 

To  make  our  noblest  glory  spring  from  out  our  sad- 
dest shame ! 

On  all  our  wondrous,  upward  course  hath  Heaven 
its  finger  set, 

And  we — but,  oh,  my  countrymen,  there's  much  be- 
fore us  yet! 


How  sorrowful  the  useless  powers  our  glorious 
Island  yields — 

Our  countless  havens  desolate,  our  waste  of  barren 
fields, 

The  all  unused  mechanic-might  our  rushing  streams 
afford, 

The  buried  treasure  of  our  mines,  our  sea's  unvalued 
hoard ! 

But,  oh,  there  is  one  piteous  waste  whence  all  the 
rest  have  grown, 

One  worse  neglect,  the  mind  of  man  left  desert  and 
unsown. 

Send  knowledge  forth  to  scatter  wide,  and  deep  to 
cast  its  seeds, 

The  nurse  of  energy  and  hope,  of  manly  thoughts 
and  deeds. 

Let  it  go  forth:  right  soon  will  spring  those  forces 
in  its  train 

That  vanquish  Nature's  stubborn  strength,  that  rifle 
earth  and  main — 

Itself  a nobler  harvest  far  than  Autumn  tints  with 
gold. 


126  BALLAD  HISTORY  OE  IRELAND 


A higher  wealth,  a surer  gain,  than  wave  and  mine 
unfold ; 

Let  it  go  forth  unstained,  and  purged  from  pride's 
unholy  leaven, 

With  fearless  forehead  raised  to  man,  bur  humbly 
bent  to  Heaven. 

Deep  let  it  sink  in  Irish  hearts,  the  story  of  their 
Isle, 

And  awaken  thoughts  of  tenderest  love,  and  burning 
love  the  while ; 

And  press  upon  us,  one  by  one,  the  fruits  of  English 
sway, 

And  blend  the  wrongs  of  bygone  times  with  this  our 
fight  to-day ; 

And  show  our  father's  constancy  by  truest  instinct 
led, 

To  loathe  and  battle  with  the  power  that  on  their 
substance  fed; 

And  let  it  place  beside  our  own  the  world’s  vast  page, 
to  tell 

That  never  lived  the  nation  yet  could  rule  another 
well. 

Thus,  thus  our  cause  shall  gather  strength,  no  feeling 
vague  and  blind, 

But  stamped  by  passion  on  the  heart,  by  reason  on 
the  mind. 

Let  it  go  forth  a mightier  foe  to  England’s  power 
than  all 

The  rifles  of  America — the  armaments  of  Gaul ! 

It  shall  go  forth,  and  woe  to  them  that  bar  or  thwart 
its  way; 

’Tis  God’s  own  light — all  heavenly  bright — we  care 
not  who  says  nay ! 


— John  O' Hagan. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  127 


We  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  Ireland  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  notwithstanding  all  it  had  to  un- 
dergo in  the  way  of  persecution  and  the  repression  of 
learning,  was  entirely  devoid  of  scholarly  men  who 
have  made  their  mark  in  the  literary  world.  True,  their 
education  was  not  obtained  in  Ireland,  but  in  the  for- 
eign schools  which  were  placed  by  friends  of  Ireland 
at  the  service  of  Irish  youth,  chiefly  at  Louvain,  in 
Belgium,  Valladolid  and  Salamanca,  in  Spain,  and  var- 
ious parts  of  France.  Florence  Conroy,  Archbishop  of 
Tuam,  a man  of  considerable  theological  and  literary 
attainments;  Dr.  Geoffrey  Keating,  author  of  a well 
known  History  of  Ireland;  Luke  Wadding,  author  of 
the  “ Annals  of  the  Friars’  Minor;”  David  Rothe, 
Bishop  of  Ossory,  and  Nicholas  French,  Bishop  of 
Ferns,  were  all  conspicuous  during  the  seventeenth 
century  as  men  of  action,  but  also  as  men  of  literary 
worth.  Perhaps  the  work  of  all  others  that  is  most 
prized — not  indeed  as  a work  of  literary  art,  to  which 
it  has  not  the  slightest  pretensions — but  as  a monu- 
ment of  industry  and  most  valuable  historical  data  is 
the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  compiled  by  a Fran- 
ciscan monk  of  Donegal,  Michael  O’Clery,  with  the 
help  of  three  laymen,  Conary  and  Cucogry  O’Clery  and 
Ferfeasa  O’Mulconry.  The  Irish  Franciscans  of  this 
period  deserve  special  mention  for  their  work  in  con- 
nection with  Irish  hagiography.  Father  Hugh  Ward 
wrote  a life  of  St.  Romuald  and  Father  John  Colgan 
is  the  author  of  the  “Acts  of  the  Irish  Saints,”  etc. 


128  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


THE  FOUR  MASTERS. 

(Seventeenth  Century.) 

Many  altars  are  in  Banva,  * 

Many  chancels  are  hung-  in  white, 
Many  schools  and  many  abbeys, 
Glorious  in  our  fathers’  sight; 

Yet  whene’er  I go  a pilgrim 
Back,  dear  Native  Isle,  to  thee, 

May  my  filial  footsteps  bear  me 
To  that  Abbey  by  the  sea — 

To  that  Abbey — roofless,  doorless, 
Shrineless,  monkless,  though  it  be ! 

These  are  days  of  swift  up-building ; 

All  to  pride  and  triumph  tends ; 

Art  is  liegeman  to  Religion ; — 
Wealth  on  Genius  now  attends. 

As  the  day-beam  to  the  sailor, 
Lighting  up  the  wrecker’s  shore — 
So  the  present  lustre  shineth 
And  our  dangers  all  are  o’er — 

But  no  gleam  rests  on  that  Abbey, 
Silent  by  Tirconnel’s  shore. 

Yet  I hear  them  in  my  musings, 

And  I see  them  as  I gaze, — 

Four  meek  men  around  the  dresset, 
Reading  scrolls  of  other  days ; 

Four  unwearied  scribes  who  treasure 
Every  word  and  every  line — 

Saving  every  ancient  sentence 
As  if  writ  by  hands  divine. 

On  their  calm  down-bended  foreheads 
Tell  me  what  it  is  you  read? 

* Name  of  Ireland. 


TARA  BROOCH 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  129 


Is  there  malice,  or  ambition, 

Selfish  will,  or  selfish  deed  ? 

Oh,  no,  no!  the  angel  Duty 

Sheds  his  light  within  these  walls ; 
And  their  four  worn  right  hands  follow 
Where  the  Angel's  radiance  falls. 


Not  of  fame,  and  not  of  fortune, 

Do  these  eager  pensmen  dream ; 

Darkness  shrouds  the  hills  of  Banva, 
Sorrow  sits  by  every  stream ; 

One  by  one  the  lights  that  lead  her, 

Hour  by  hour,  are  quenched  in  gloom; 
But  the  patient,  sad  Four  Masters, 

Toil  on  in  their  lonely  room — 

Duty  still  defying  Doom. 

As  the  breathing  of  the  west  winds 
Over  bound  and  bearded  sheaves — 

As  the  murmur  in  the  bee-hives 
Softly  heard  on  summer  eves: — 

So  the  rustle  of  the  vellum, — 

So  the  anxious  voices  sound ; — 

While  a deep  expectant  silence 
Seems  to  listen  all  around. 

Brightly  on  the  Abbey  gable 

Shines  the  full  moon  thro’  the  night, 
While  afar  to  northward  glances 
All  the  bay  in  waves  of  light: 

Tufted  isle  and  splinter’d  headland 
Smile  and  soften  in  her  ray; 

Yet  within  their  dusky  chamber 
The  meek  Masters  toil  away, 

Finding  all  too  short  the  day. 


130  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Now  they  kneel ! oh,  list  the  accents, 

From  the  soul  of  mourners  wrung; 

Hear  the  soaring  aspirations 
In  the  old  ancestral  tongue ; 

For  the  houseless  sons  of  chieftains, 

For  their  brethren  near  and  far, 

For  the  mourning  Mother  Island 
These  their  aspirations  are. 

And  they  say  before  up-rising: 

“Father ! grant  one  other  pray’r. 

Bless  the  Lord  of  Moy — O’Gara ! 

Bless  his  lady  and  his  heir! 

Send  the  generous  Chief,  whose  bounty 
Cheers,  sustains  us,  in  our  task, 

Health,  success,  renown,  salvation : 

Father!  grant  the  prayer  we  ask.” 

Oh,  that  we,  who  now  inherit 
The  great  bequest  of  their  toil, — 

Were  but  fit  to  trace  their  footsteps 
Through  the  annals  of  the  Isle ; 

Oh,  that  the  same  angel,  Duty, 

Guardian  of  our  tasks  might  be ; 

Teach  us,  as  she  taught  our  Masters, 
Faithful,  grateful,  just,  to  be: — 

As  she  taught  the  old  Four  Masters 
In  the  Abbey  by  the  sea ! 

— T.  D.  McGee . 


Many  of  the  soldiers  who  had  fought  at  the  Boyne, 
Athlone  and  Aughrim  remained  behind  in  Ireland  when 
Sarsfield’s  regiments  sailed  away  for  France.  Some  of 
these  banded  themselves  together  under  capable  leaders 
and  managed,  from  time  to  time,  to  make  things  un- 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  131 


pleasant  for  their  English  and  Protestant  neighbors. 
To  the  Irish  peasantry  they  were  always  favorable,  and 
in  turn  received  whatever  help  or  countenance  the  peas- 
antry were  able  to  impart.  The  names  of  Galloping 
Hogan  and  Redmond  O’Hanlon  are  to  this  day  house- 
hold words  in  some  parts  of  Ireland.  They  were  known 
as  Rapparees,  and,  though  half  robber  and  half  soldier, 
they  played  a part  in  the  tragedy  of  Ireland. 

THE  IRISH  RAPPAREES. 

(A  Peasant  Ballad  of  1591.) 

Righ*  Shemus  he  has  gone  to  France  and  left  his 
crown  behind : — 

Ill-luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put  runnin’ 
in  his  mind! 

Lord  Lucan  followed  after,  with  his  slashers  brave 
and  true, 

And  now,  the  doleful  keen  is  raised — “What  will 
poor  Ireland  do? 

What  must  poor  Ireland  do? 

Our  luck,  they  say,  has  gone  to  France.  What  can 
poor  Ireland  do?” 

Oh,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  so’gers 
still, 

For  Rory’s  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Remy’s  on 
the  hill ; 

And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more  loyal  hearts  than 
these — 

May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful  Rap- 
parees ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees ! 

The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rap- 
parees ! 

* Pronounced  Ree. 


i32  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Oh,  black’s  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and  coulder  than 
the  clay! 

Oh,  high’s  your  head,  Clan  Sassanach,  since  Sars- 
field’s  gone  away ! 

It’s  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of  long 
ago— 

But  howld  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a 
deadly  blow — 

Can  strike  a mortal  blow. 

Och ! dhar-a-Chreesth ! ’tis  she  that  still  could  strike 
the  deadly  blow  1 

The  Master’s  bawn,  the  Master’s  seat,  a surly  bodach 
fills; 

The  Master’s  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the 
hills ; 

But,  God  be  praised,  that  round  him  throng,  as  thick 
as  summer  bees. 

The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  walls — his  loyal 
Rapparees ! 

His  lovin’  Rapparees ! 

Who  dare  say  no  to  Rory  Oge,  who  heads  the  Rap- 
parees ! 

Black  Billy  Grimes,  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us 
long  and  sore — 

God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke,  we’ll  never  see 
them  more! 

But  I’ll  go  bail  he’ll  break  no  more  while  Truagh  has 
gallows-trees, 

For  why?  He  met  one  lonesome  night  the  awful  Rap- 
parees ! 

The  angry  Rapparees ! 

They  never  sin  no  more,  my  boys,  who  cross  the 
Rapparees. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND  133 


Now,  Sassanach,  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what 
I say — 

Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks  that  scorn 
us  night  and  day; 

For  there’s  a just  and  wrathful  judge  that  every 
action  sees, 

And  he’ll  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong,  the  faith- 
ful Rapparees ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees ! 

The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield’s  side,  the  changeless 
Rapparees ! 

— Charles  Gavan  Duffy . 


The  fame  of  the  Irish  soldiers  who  took  service  in 
continental  armies  after  the  surrender  of  Limerick  is 
well  known  and  generally  admitted.  For  whatever 
cause  they  fought,  their  valour  was  unquestioned  and 
unquestionable.  Many  a time  it  fell  to  their  lot  to 
strike  a hard  blow  to  England’s  power  as  did  Sars- 
field  on  the  field  of  Landen,  who  fell  wounded  and 
dying  when  in  victorious  pursuit  of  the  English  forces. 
But  alas ! though  their  worth  was  appreciated,  Ireland, 
the  mother  whom  they  loved,  was  not  in  any  way  bet- 
tered by  their  efforts.  The  bones  of  Irish  soldiery 
strew  the  battle-fields  of  Europe. 

For  on  far  foreign  field  from  Dunkirk  to  Belgrade, 
Lie  the  soldiers  and  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade. 

That  the  exiled  Irish  won  laurels  in  peace  as  in  war 
the  courts  of  Europe  to  this  day  are  witness — for  we 
have  O’Donnells,  and  Taafes,  McMahons,  Nugents, 


134  BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND 


O’Neills  and  others  prominent  in  the  councils  of  the 
nations  to  which  they  now  belong. 

Two  of  the  occasions  on  which  the  Irish  Brigade  in 
the  service  of  France  particularly  distinguished  itself 
are  commemorated  in  the  following  ballads.  The  town 
of  Cremona,  in  Italy,  held  by  the  French  forces,  had 
been  surprised  by  Prince  Eugene,  acting  in  the  in- 
terest of  King  William.  It  was  rescued  mainly  through 
the  efforts  of  the  Irish  soldiers.  The  battle  of  Fontenoy 
was  almost  lost  to  the  French,  but  the  day  was  saved 
by  the  headlong  valour  of  the  Irish  Brigade,  and  what 
threatened  to  be  an  overwhelming  disaster  was  changed 
into  a most  glorious  victory.  King  Louis,  of  France, 
it  is  said,  rode  down  to  the  Irish  bivouac  to  thank  the 
Irish  Brigade  in  person,  while  George  II.,  of  England, 
when  he  heard  the  cause  of  the  disaster  to  the  Eng- 
lish arms,  exclaimed:  “Cursed  be  the  laws  that  de- 

prive me  of  such  subjects.” 

THE  SURPRISE  OF  CREMONA.* 

From  Milan  to  Cremona  Duke  Villeroy  rode, 

And  soft  are  the  beds  in  his  princely  abode; 

In  billet  and  barrack  the  garrison  sleep, 

And  loose  is  the  watch  the  sentinels  keep ; 

’Tis  the  eve  of  St.  David,  and  bitter  the  breeze 
Of  that  mid-winter  night  on  the  flat  Cremonese; 

A fig  for  precaution! — Prince  Eugene  sits  down 
In  winter  cantonments  round  Mantua  town. 

Yet  through  Ustiano,  and  out  on  the  plain, 

Horse,  foot  and  dragoons  are  defiling  amain 

* A.  D.  1702. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  135 


“That  flash,”  said  Prince  Eugene,  “Count  Merci,  push 
on” — 

Like  a rock  from  a precipice  Merci  is  gone. 

Proud  mutters  the  prince — “That  is  Cassioli’s  sign: 
Ere  the  dawn  of  the  morning  Cremona  ’ll  be  mine — 
For  Merci  will  open  the  gate  of  the  Po, 

But  scant  is  the  mercy  Prince  Vaudemont  will  show!” 

Through  gate,  street,  and  square,  with  his  keen  cava- 
liers— 

A flood  through  a gully — Count  Merci  careers ; 

They  ride  without  getting  or  giving  a blow. 

Nor  halt  ’till  they  gaze  on  the  gate  of  the  Po: 
“Surrender  the  gate” — but  a volley  replied, 

For  a handful  of  Irish  are  posted  inside. 

By  my  faith,  Charles  Vaudemont  will  come  rather  late, 
If  he  stay  till  Count  Merci  shall  open  that  gate! 

But  in  through  St.  Margaret’s  the  Austrians  pour, 
And  billet  and  barrack  are  ruddy  with  gore; 
Unarmed  and  naked  the  soldiers  are  slain — 

There’s  an  enemy’s  gauntlet  on  Villeroy’s  rein — 

“A  thousand  pistoles  and  a regiment  of  horse — 
Release  me  Mac  Donnell!” — they  hold  on  their  course. 
Count  Merci  has  seized  upon  cannon  and  wall 
Prince  Eugene’s  headquarters  are  in  the  town  hall! 

Here  and  there,  through  the  city,  some  readier  band, 
For  honor,  and  safety,  undauntedly  stand. 

At  the  head  of  the  regiments  of  Dillon  and  Burke 
Is  Major  O’Mahony,  fierce  as  a Turk. 

His  sabre  is  flashing — the  major  is  drest, 

But  muskets  and  shirts  are  the  clothes  of  the  rest! 
Yet  they  rushed  to  the  ramparts — the  clocks  have 
tolled  ten — 

And  Count  Merci  retreats  with  the  half  of  his  men. 


136  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


“In  on  them/’  said  Freidberg, — and  Dillon  is  broke, 
Like  forest-flowers  crushed  by  the  fall  of  the  oak; 
Through  the  naked  battalions  the  cuirassiers  go; — 
But  the  man,  not  the  dress,  makes  the  soldier,  I trow. 
Upon  them  with  grapple,  with  bay’net,  and  ball, 
Like  wolves  upon  gaze-hounds,  the  Irishmen  fall — 
Black  Friedberg  is  slain  by  O’Mahony’s  steel, 

And  black  from  the  bullets  the  cuirassiers  reel. 

Oh,  hear  you  their  shout  in  your  quarters,  Eugene  ? 
In  vain  on  Prince  Vaudemont  for  succor  you  lean ! 
The  bridge  has  been  broken,  and  mark ! how  pell-mell 
Come  riderless  horses,  and  volley  and  yell ! — 

He’s  a veteran  soldier — he  clenches  his  hands — 

He  springs  on  his  horse,  disengages  his  bands — 

He  rallies,  he  urges,  till,  hopeless  of  aid, 

He  is  chased  through  the  gates  by  the  Irish  Brigade. 

News,  news,  in  Vienna! — King  Leopold’s  sad. 

News,  news,  in  St.  James’! — King  William  is  mad. 
News,  news,  in  Versailles! — “Let  the  Irish  Brigade 
Be  royally  honored,  and  royally  paid.” 

News,  news,  in  old  Ireland — high  rises  her  pride, 
And  high  sounds  her  wail  for  her  children  who  died, 
And  deep  is  her  prayer, — “God  send  I may  see 
Mac  Donnell  and  Mahony  fighting  for  me.” 

— Thomas  Davis. 

FONTENOY* 

Thrice,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  English  column 
failed, 

And,  twice,  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  Dutch  in 
vain  assailed; 

For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking 
battery, 

* A.  D.  1745. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  137 


And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks,  and  Dutch 
auxiliary. 

As  vainly,  through  De  Barri's  wood,  the  British  sol- 
diers burst. 

The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished  and 
dispersed. 

The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious 
eye, 

And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to 
try ; 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride! 

And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops,  like  clouds  at 
eventide. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread. 

Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay  is  at 
their  head; 

Steady  they  step  a-down  the  slope — steady  they  climb 
the  hill ; 

Steady  they  load — steady  they  fire,  moving  right  on- 
ward still 

Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a furnace 
blast, 

Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets 
showering  fast 

And  on  the  open  plain  they  rose,  and  kept  their  course, 

With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked  at  hos- 
tile force: 

Past  Fontenoy,  past  Fontenoy,  while  thinner  grow  their 
ranks — 

They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland's 
ocean  banks. 


More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush- 
round  ; 


1 38  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons  strew 
the  ground; 

Bomb-shell,  and  grape,  and  round-shot  tore,  still  on 
they  marched  and  fired — 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltiguer  re- 
tired. 

uPush  on,  my  household  cavalry!”  King  Louis  madly 
cried : 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock — not  un- 
avenged they  died. 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod — King  Louis 
turns  his  rein; 

"Not  yet,  my  liege,”  Saxe  interposed,  "the  Irish  troops 
remain ;” 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a Waterloo, 

Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement,  and 
true. 

"Lord  Clare,”  he  says,  "you  have  your  wish,  there  are 
your  Saxon  foes !” 

The  Marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously  he 
goes ! 

How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who’re  wont  to 
be  so  gay ! 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts 
today — 

The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  ’twas  writ 
could  dry. 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their 
women’s  parting  cry, 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  coun- 
try overthrown, — 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him 
alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  139 


Rushed  on  to  fight  a nobler  band  than  these  proud 
exiles  were. 

O’Brien’s  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  com- 
mands, 

“Fix  bay’nets” — “Charge” — Like  mountain  storm,  rush 
on  these  fiery  bands ! 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  vol- 
leys grow, 

Yet,  must’ring  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make 
a gallant  show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  battle- 
wind — 

Their  bayonets  the  breakers’  foam ; like  rocks,  the  men 
behind ! 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when,  through  the 
surging  smoke, 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong 
Irish  broke, 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza! 

“Revenge!  Remember  Limerick!  dash  down  the  Sas- 
sanach.” 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a fold,  when  mad  with  hunger’s 
pang,  - 

Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles 
sprang : 

Bright  was  their  steel,  ’tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are 
filled  with  gore; 

Through  scattered  ranks,  and  severed  files,  and 
trampled  flags  they  tore. 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused, 
rallied,  staggered,  fled — 

The  green  hill-side  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with 
dead. 


140  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Across  the  plain,  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous 
wrack. 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 
With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the  field  is  fought 
and  won ! 

— Thomas  Davis . 


The  Irish  Volunteers,  originally  enrolled  for  the  pur- 
pose  of  repelling  French  invasion  of  the  north  of  Ire- 
land, became  the  chief  agency  in  the  national  develop- 
ment of  Ireland.  At  a convention  held  in  the  town  of 
Dungannon,  they  declared  that  no  power  save  the 
King,  Lords  and  Commons  of  Ireland  had  power  to 
legislate  for  the  Irish  people.  At  the  instance  of  Henry 
Grattan  the  same  principle  was  enunciated  by  the  Irish 
Parliament,  and  was  reluctantly  admitted  by  King 
George  III.,  of  England,  on  the  advice  of  Charles 
James  Fox,  and  the  English  Whigs  who  were  then  in 
power.  With  national  freedom  commenced  a period  of 
prosperity  for  Ireland  that  never  before  or  since  was 
equalled.  Ireland  owes  a deep  debt  of  gratitude  to  the 
Volunteers.  Largely  owing  to  dissensions  among  their 
leaders  they  lost  their  influence  and  power,  and  the  or- 
ganization came  to  an  end  to  be  succeeded  in  a short 
time  by  the  United  Irishmen. 

THE  DUNGANNON  CONVENTION.* 

The  church  of  Dungannon  is  full  to  the  door, 

And  sabre  and  spur  clash  at  times  on  the  floor, 
While  helmet  and  shako  are  ranged  all  along, 

Yet  no  book  of  devotion  is  seen  in  the  throng. 

* A.  D.  1782. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  141 


In  front  of  the  altar  no  minister  stands, 

And  though  solemn  the  looks  and  the  voices  around, 
You'd  listen  in  vain  for  a litany's  sound. 

Say  what  do  they  hear  in  the  temple  of  prayer? 

Oh!  why  in  the  fold  has  the  lion  his  lair? 

Sad,  wounded  and  wan  was  the  face  of  our  Isle, 

By  English  oppression,  and  falsehood  and  guile ! 

Yet  when  to  invade  it  a foreign  fleet  steered, 

To  guard  it  for  England  the  North  volunteered. 
From  the  citizen-soldiers  the  foe  fled  aghast — 

Still  they  stood  to  their  guns  when  the  danger  had 
passed ; 

For  the  voice  of  America  came  o'er  the  wave, 
Crying  woe  to  the  tyrant,  and  hope  to  the  slave ! 
Indignation  and  shame  through  their  regiments 
speed, 

They  have  arms  in  their  hands,  what  more  do  they 
need? 

O'er  the  green  hills  of  Ulster  their  banners  are 
spread, 

The  cities  of  Leinster  resound  to  their  tread, 

The  valleys  of  Munster  with  ardor  are  stirred, 

And  the  plains  of  wild  Connaught  their  bugles  have 
heard  ; 

A Protestant  front-rank  and  Catholic  rear — 

For  forbidden  the  arms  of  freedom  to  bear — 

Yet  foeman  and  friend  are  full  sure,  if  need  be, 
The  slave  of  his  country  will  stand  by  the  free. 

By  green  flags  supported,  the  orange  flags  wave, 
And  the  soldier  half  turns  to  unfetter  the  slave! 

More  honored  that  church  of  Dungannon  is  now 
Than  when  at  its  altar  communicants  bow ; 

More  welcome  to  Heaven  than  anthem  or  prayer, 


142  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Are  the  rites  and  the  thoughts  of  the  warriors  there ; 
In  the  name  of  all  Ireland  the  Delegates  swore — 
“We've  suffered  too  long,  and  we’ll  suffer  no  more — 
Unconquered  by  force,  we  were  vanquished  by 
fraud ; 

And  now  in  God’s  temple,  we  vow  unto  God, 

That  never  again  shall  the  Englishman  bind 

His  chains  on  our  limbs,  or  his  laws  on  our  mind.” 

The  church  of  Dungannon  is  empty  once  more — 

No  plumes  on  the  altar,  no  clash  on  the  floor. 

But  the  counsels  of  England  are  fluttered  to  see, 

In  the  cause  of  their  country  the  Irish  agree ; 

So  they  give  as  a boon  what  they  dare  not  with- 
hold, 

And  Ireland,  a nation,  leaps  up  as  of  old. 

With  a name,  and  a trade,  and  a flag  of  her  own, 
And  an  army  to  fight' for  the  people  and  throne. 
But  woe  worth  the  day,  if  to  falsehood  or  fears, 
She  surrender  the  guns  of  her  brave  volunteers ! 

— Thomas  Davis . 


THE  VOLUNTEERS. 

“Mother — dear  mother,  tell  me  what  meant  the  proud 
array 

Of  armed  men  and  prancing  steeds  which  passed 
yon  mountain  way? 

And  who  was  he  of  noble  mien  and  brow  of  lordly 
pride, 

Who  rode,  like  warrior  chief  of  old,  that  gallant  band 
beside? 

“Marked  you  how  lighted  up  his  eye,  as  in  the  noon- 
day sun 

Their  silken  banners  flutter’d  wide  and  flash’d  each 
polish’d  gun, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  143 


And  how  with  gentle  courtesy  he  oft  and  lowly 
bowed, 

As  rang  the  brazen  trumpets  out,  and  cheer'd  th'  as- 
sembled crowd? 

“Methinks  the  Spartan  chief  who  fell  at  famed  Ther- 
mopylae, 

Of  whom  we  read  but  yesternight  was  such  a man 
as  he — 

The  same  proud  port  and  eagle  eye — the  same  de- 
termined frown. 

And  supple  arm  to  shield  a friend  or  strike  a foeman 
down. 

“And  then  those  troops  as  on  they  passed,  in  proud 
and  glittering  show, 

Seemed  worthy  of  the  chief  who  led — 'twere  pity  of 
the  foe 

Who  roused  to  wrath  their  slumbering  might,  or 
wronged  our  own  green  land — 

I'd  promise  them  a scattered  host  with  many  a 
shivered  brand." 

“You're  right,  dear  Mabel,  for  the  chief  who  leads 
that  warrior  host 

Is  Grattan — high  and  honored  name — thy  country’? 
proudest  boast ; 

And  they  whose  closely  marshalled  ranks  the  people 
hailed  with  cheers. 

Thy  country's  soldier-citizens — the  gallant  Volun- 
teers." 

“Then  why,  dear  mother — tell  me  why  those  Volun- 
teers arose? 

Was  it  to  guard  some  sacred  right,  or  to  repel  our 
foes? 


i44  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


For  I have  heard  my  father  say  he  dreaded  England's 
word 

And  English  perfidy  far  more  than  foreign  foeman's 
sword.” 

"They  rose  to  guard  from  foreign  foes — as  well  as 
from  British  guile — 

Thy  liberties  and  mine,  my  child,  and  all  within  this 
Isle ; 

To  make  this  glorious  land  of  ours — those  hills  we 
love  so  well, 

A fitting  home  and  resting  place  where  freedom's 
foot  might  dwell. 

"They  rose  and  swore  by  Freedom's  name,  by  kin- 
dred and  by  kind, 

No  foreign  rule,  no  foreign  guile,  their  country's 
limbs  should  bind — 

That  she  should  stand  erect  and  fair,  as  in  the  olden 
time, 

The  loveliest  'mong  the  nations — of  Ocean’s  Isles  the 
prime. 

"That  they  have  nobly  kept  this  pledge,  bear  witness 
one  and  alb 

The  bootless  plots  of  England,  the  baffled  hosts  of 
Gaul. 

That  they  may  long  be  spared  to  guard  our  country's 
rights  divine, 

Should  be  your  prayer  at  night  and  morn,  my  child, 
as  it  is  mine.” 

— M.  O.  B. 


On  the  suppression  of  the  Volunteers  the  society 
known  as  United  Irishmen  was  instituted.  Its  object 
was  the  reformation  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  which  was 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  145 


a distinctly  Protestant  institution,  and  the  emancipa- 
tion of  Irish  Catholics.  To  obtain  their  demands  the 
United  Irishmen  determined  to  appeal  to  arms  if  neces- 
sary. Consequently  they  armed  themselves  with  pikes 
and  other  weapons  and  drilled  as  best  they  could.  They 
even  sent  emissaries  to  France  to  request  assistance, 
which  was  promised  and  in  due  time  despatched.  Wolfe 
Tone  was  perhaps  the  leading  spirit  of  the  United 
Irishmen,  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald  at  first  and  after- 
wards Robert  Emmet,  the  most  picturesque.  The  out- 
come was  the  rebellion  of  1798,  hastened  by  unendur- 
able outrages  inflicted  on  the  people.  When  the  rebel- 
lion was  subdued  William  Pitt,  the  English  Minister, 
and  Lord  Castlereagh,  his  Irish  agent,  through  bribery 
and  fraud,  passed  the  iniquitous  measure  of  legislative 
union  with  England  through  the  Irish  Parliament.  The 
following  ballads  show  the  spirit  of  the  Irish  peasantry 
at  this  time.  “Who  Fears  to  Speak  of  Ninety-Eight?” 
written  by  a Trinity  College  man,  shows  Ireland’s  sen- 
timent fifty  years  after. 


RORY  OF  THE  HILLS. 

“That  rake  up  near  the  rafters, 

Why  leave  it  there  so  long  ? 

The  handle  of  the  best  of  ash, 

Is  smooth  and  straight  and  strong ; 

And,  mother,  will  you  tell  me, 

Why  did  my  father  frown 

When  to  make  the  hay,  in  summertime, 

I climbed  to  take  it  down  ?” 


146  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


She  looked  into  her  husband’s  eyes, 

While  her  own  with  light  did  fill, 

“You’ll  shortly  know  the  reason,  boy!” 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

The  midnight  moon  is  lightning  up 
The  slopes  of  Sliav-na-man, — 

Whose  foot  affrights  the  startled  hares 
So  long  before  the  dawn? 

He  stopped  just  where  the  Anner’s  stream 
Winds  up  the  woods,  anear, 

Then  whistled  low  and  looked  around 
To  see  the  coast  was  clear. 

The  sheeling  door  flew  open — 

In  he  stepped  with  right  good-will — 

“God  save  all  here  and  bless  your  WORK,” 
Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Right  hearty  was  the  welcome 
That  greeted  him,  I ween, 

For  years  gone  by  he  fully  proved 
How  well  he  loved  the  Green ; 

And  there  was  one  amongst  them 
Who  grasped  him  by  the  hand — 

One  who  through  all  that  weary  time 
Roamed  on  a foreign  stand; 

He  brought  them  news  from  gallant  friends 
That  made  their  heart-strings  thrill — 

“My  soul ! I never  doubted  them !” 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

They  sat  around  the  humble  board 
Till  dawning  of  the  day. 

And  yet  not  song  nor  shout  I heard, 

No  revelers  were  they; 

Some  brows  flushed  red  with  gladness, 

While  some  were  grimly  pale ; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


147 


But  pale  or  red,  from  out  those  eyes 
Flashed  souls  that  never  quail ! 

“And  sing  us  now  about  the  vow, 

They  swore  for  to  fulfill” — 

“You'll  read  it  yet  in  history,” 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Next  day  the  ashen  handle 
He  took  down  from  where  it  hung, 

The  toothed  rake,  full  scornfully, 

Into  the  fire  he  flung ; 

And  in  its  stead  a shining  blade 
Is  gleaming  once  again — 

(Oh!  for  a hundred  thousand  of  such  weapons  and 
such  men !) 

Right  soldierly  he  wielded  it, 

And — going  through  his  drill — 

“ 'Attention' — 'charge' — 'front  point' — 'advance,'  ” 
Cried  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

She  looked  at  him  with  woman's  pride, 

With  pride  and  woman's  fears ; 

She  flew  to  him,  she  clung  to  him, 

And  dried  away  her  tears; 

He  feels  her  pulse  beat  truly, 

While  her  arms  around  him  twine — 

“Now  God  be  praised  for  your  stout  heart, 

Brave  little  wife  of  mine.” 

He  swung  his  first  born  in  the  air, 

While  joy  his  heart  did  fill — 

“You'll  be  a FREEMAN  yet,  my  boy,” 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Oh  ! knowledge  is  a wondrous  power, 

And  stronger  than  the  wind; 

And  thrones  shall  fall,  and  despots  bow, 


148  BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND 


Before  the  might  of  mind; 

The  poet  and  the  orator 
The  heart  of  man  can  sway, 

And  would  to  the  kind  heavens 

That  Wolfe  Tone  were  here  to-day 

Yet  trust  me,  friends,  dear  Ireland's  strength — 

Her  truest  strength — is  still 

The  rough  and  ready  roving  boys, 

Like  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

— Charles  Kickham. 


THE  CROPPY  BOY. 

“Good  men  and  true ! in  this  house  who  dwell, 
To  a stranger  bouchal,  I pray  you  tell 
Is  the  priest  at  home  ? or  may  he  be  seen  ? 

I would  speak  a word  with  Father  Green." 

“The  priest's  at  home,  boy,  and  may  be  seen ; 
'Tis  easy  speaking  with  Father  Green; 

But  you  must  wait,  till  I go  and  see 
If  the  holy  father  alone  may  be." 

The  youth  has  entered  the  empty  hall — 

What  a lonely  sound  has  his  light  footfall ! 
And  the  gloomy  chamber's  chill  and  bare, 

With  a vested  priest  in  a lonely  chair. 

The  youth  has  knelt  to  tell  his  sins ; 

“Nomine  Dei"  the  youth  begins; 

At  “mea  culpa"  he  beats  his  breast, 

And  in  broken  murmurs  he  speaks  the  rest. 

“At  the  siege  of  Ross  did  my  father  fall, 
And  at  Gorey  my  loving  brothers  all ; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  149 


I alone  am  left  of  my  name  and  race, 

I will  go  to  Wexford  and  take  their  place. 

“I  cursed  three  times  since  last  Easter  day — 
At  mass-time  once  I went  to  play ; 

I passed  the  church-yard  one  day  in  haste, 
And  forgot  to  pray  for  my  mother’s  rest. 

“I  bear  no  hate  against  living  thing ; 

But  I love  my  country  above  my  King. 

Now,  Father!  bless  me,  and  let  me  go 
To  die,  if  God  has  ordained  it  so.” 


The  priest  said  naught,  but  a rustling  noise 
Made  the  youth  look  up  in  wild  surprise ; 
The  robes  were  off,  and  in  scarlet  there 
Sat  a yeoman  captain  with  fiery  glare. 


With  fiery  glare  and  with  fury  hoarse, 

Instead  of  blessing,  he  breathed  a curse : — 

“ ’Twas  a good  thought,  boy,  to  come  here  and  shrive, 
For  one  short  hour  is  your  time  to  live. 


“Upon  yon  river  three  tenders  float, 

The  priest’s  in  one,  if  he  isn’t  shot — 

We  hold  his  house  for  our  Lord  and  King, 

And,  amen  say  I,  may  all  traitors  swing!” 

At  Geneva  Barrack  that  young  man  died, 

And  at  Passage  they  have  his  body  laid. 

Good  people  who  live  in  peace  and  joy,  ' 

Breathe  a prayer  and  a tear  for  the  Croppy  Boy. 

— Carroll  Malone. 


150  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight? 
Who  blushes  at  the  name? 

When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 
Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 

He's  all  a knave  or  half  a slave 
Who  slights  his  country  thus : 

But  a true  man,  like  you  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 
The  faithful  and  the  few — 

Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too; 

All,  all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 
The  fame  of  those  who  died ; 

And  true  men,  like  you,  men, 
Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 
Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 

And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 
Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 

But  though  their  clay  be  far  away 
Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 

In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit's  still  at  home. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth; 
Among  their  own  they  rest; 

And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 
Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 

And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 
Full  many  a race  may  start 

Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a part. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  151 


They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 
To  right  their  native  land ; 

They  kindled  here  a living  blaze 
That  nothing  shall  withstand. 

Alas ! that  Might  can  vanquish  Right — 
They  fell,  and  passed  away ; 

But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here’s  their  memory ! may  it  be 
For  us  a guiding  light, 

To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite ! 

Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland’s  still 
Though  sad  as  theirs,  your  fate; 

And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 

— /.  K.  Ingram. 


Robert  Emmet,  the  gallant  youth  who  forfeited  his 
life  for  Ireland,  has  won  his  way  to  the  undying  love 
of  Ireland  by  his  undaunted  bearing  in  the  dock  and 
by  the  appealing  eloquence  of  his  last  speech.  He  was 
the  accepted  lover  of  Sarah  Gurran,  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  John  Philpot  Curran,  one  of  the  greatest 
of  Ireland’s  advocates  and  patriots.  The  pathos  of 
their  sad  fate  is  well  expressed  in  the  following  short 
poems.  Robert  Emmet  was  hanged  in  Dublin,  20th  of 
September,  1803.  He  was  then  only  twenty-four  years 
of  age. 

EMMET’S  DEATH. 

“He  dies  today,”  said  the  heartless  judge, 

Whilst  he  sat  him  down  to  the  feast. 


152  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  a smile  was  upon  his  ashy  lip 
As  he  uttered  a ribald  jest; 

For  a demon  dwelt  where  his  heart  should  be. 
That  lived  upon  blood  and  sin, 

And  oft  as  that  vile  judge  gave  him  food 
The  demon  throbbed  within. 

“He  dies  today,”  said  the  gaoler  grim, 

Whilst  a tear  was  in  his  eye; 

“But  why  should  I feel  so  grieved  for  him? 

Sure,  Fve  seen  many  die! 

Last  night  I went  to  his  stony  cell, 

With  the  scanty  prison  fare — 

He  was  sitting  at  a table  rude. 

Plaiting  a lock  of  hair! 

And  he  look’d  so  mild,  with  his  pale,  pale  face, 
And  he  spoke  in  so  kind  a way, 

That  my  old  breast  heav’d  with  a smothering  feel, 
And  I knew  not  what  to  say!” 

“He  dies  today,”  thought  a fair,  sweet  girl — 
She  lacked  the  life  to  speak, 

For  sorrow  had  almost  frozen  her  blood, 

And  white  were  her  lips  and  cheek — 

Despair  had  drunk  up  her  last  wild  tear, 

And  her  brow  was  damp  and  chill, 

And  they  often  felt  at  her  heart  with  fear, 

For  its  ebb  was  all  but  still. 

— Anon. 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleep 
And  lovers  are  ’round  her  sighing ; 

But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  153 


She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking ; — 

Ah!  little  they  think  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking. 

He  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died ; 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 

Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

Oh ! make  her  a grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a glorious  morrow ; 

They’ll  shine  o’er  her  sleep,  like  a smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 

— Thomas  Moore. 


No  wonder  Thomas  Moore  penned  this  lament  for 
the  death  of  Henry  Grattan!  for,  though  a Protestant 
himself,  he  was  one  of  the  greatest  of  Irish  patriots 
and  one  of  the  best  friends  of  the  down-trodden  Catho- 
lics. He  it  was  who,  as  he  said  himself,  found  Ireland 
on  her  knees  and  watched  over  her  with  perpetual 
solicitude  until  she  stood  erect,  a thriving  nation.  With 
all  his  strength  he  opposed  the  union  of  Ireland  and 
England.  In  the  interest  of  his  countrymen  he  became 
a member  of  the  English  Parliament.  His  last  journey 
to  London  was  taken  in  the  hope  of  furthering  relief 
for  Catholics  by  an  appeal  to  Parliament,  which,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  live  to  make.  He  died  on  the  4th  of 
June,  1820,  aged  seventy- three  years,  and  as  he  had 


154  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


won  a reputation  not  merely  as  one  of  the  greatest  of 
Irishmen,  but  as  one  of  the  world’s  greatest  orators, 
he  was  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


LAMENT  FOR  GRATTAN.* 

Shall  the  Harp  then  be  silent,  when  he  who  first  gave 
To  our  country  a name,  is  withdrawn  from  all  eyes? 

Shall  a Minstrel  of  Erin  stand  mute  by  the  grave, 
Where  the  first — where  the  last  of  her  Patriots  lies? 

No — faint  tho’  the  death-song  may  fall  from  his  lips, 
Tho’  his  Harp,  like  his  soul,  may  with  shadows  be 
crost, 

Yet,  yet  shall  it  sound,  ’mid  a nation’s  eclipse, 

And  proclaim  to  the  world  what  a star  hath  been  lost ; 

What  a union  of  all  the  affections  and  powers 
By  which  life  is  exalted,  embellish’d,  refined, 

Was  embraced  in  that  spirit — whose  centre  was  ours, 
While  its  mighty  circumference  circled  mankind. 

Oh,  who  that  loves  Erin,  or  who  that  can  see, 

Through  the  waste  of  her  annals,  that  epoch 
sublime — 

Like  a pyramid  raised  in  the  desert — where  he 
And  his  glory  stand  out  to  the  eyes  of  all-time ; 

That  one  lucid  interval,  snatch’d  from  the  gloom 
And  the  madness  of  ages,  when  fill’d  with  his  soul, 

A Nation  o’erleap’d  the  dark  bounds  of  her  doom 
And  for  one  sacred  instant,  touch’d  Liberty’s  goal? 

* Born  3rd  July,  1746.  Died  4th  June,  1820. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  155 


Who,  that  ever  hath  heard  him — hath  drunk  at  the 
source 

Of  that  wonderful  eloquence,  all  Erin’s  own, 

In  whose  high-thoughted  daring,  the  fire,  and  the  force, 
And  the  yet  untamed  spring  of  her  spirit  are  shown? 

An  eloquence  rich,  wheresoever  its  wave 

Wander’d  free  and  triumphant,  with  thoughts  that 
shone  thro’ 

As  clear  as  the  brook’s  “stone  of  lustre,”  and  gave, 
With  the  flash  of  the  gem,  its  solidity  too. 

I 

Who,  that  ever  approach’d  him,  when  free  from  the 
crowd, 

In  a home  full  of  love,  he  delighted  to  tread 
’Mong  the  trees  which  a nation  had  giv’n,  and  which 
bow’d, 

- As  if  each  brought  a new  civic  crown  for  his  head — 

Is  there  one,  who  hath  thus,  through  his  orbit  of  life, 
But  at  distance  observed  him — through  glory, 
through  blame, 

In  the  calm  of  retreat,  in  the  grandeur  of  strife, 
Whether  shining  or  clouded,  still  high  and  the  same — 

Oh,  no,  not  a heart,  that  e’er  knew  him,  but  mourns 
Deep,  deep  o’er  the  grave,  where  such  glory  is 
shrined — 

O’er  a monument  Fame  will  preserve,  ’mong  the  urns 
Of  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the  best  of  mankind ! 

— Thomas  Moore. 


Daniel  O’Connell,  “the  Liberator,”  as  he  was  lovingly 
called  by  the  Irish  people,  because  he  forced  Catholic 
Emancipation  from  a reluctant  English  king  and  gov- 


156  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


ernment,  was  born  near  Caherciveen,  County  Kerry. 
6th  of  August,  1775,  and  died  on  the  15th  of  May,  1847, 
at  Geneva,  after  a long  and  strenuous  career.  Edu- 
cated in  France,  he  studied  law  in  Ireland;  became  a 
United  Irishman  and  an  advocate  of  emancipation ; 
but  was,  before  all,  a repealer — for  as  he  once  said,  he 
would  accept  cheerfully  the  re-enacting  of  the  entire 
Penal  Code  in  exchange  for  Repeal  of  the  Union.  In 
1829  he  succeeded  in  winning  emancipation  of  Catho- 
lics, and  then  set  out  to  win  Repeal,  and  kept  up  his 
agitation  till  the  end  of  his  life.  He  was  a man  of 
wonderful  energy  and  power — a great  pleader  in  the 
Courts  of  Justice,  a mighty  orator  like  Henry  Grattan, 
and  an  utterly  fearless  advocate  in  and  out  of  Parlia- 
ment of  the  rights  of  Ireland. 

DARRYNANE. 

Where  foams  the  white  torrent,  and  rushes  the  rill, 
Down  the  murmuring  slopes  of  the  echoing  hill — 
Where  the  eagle  looks  out  from  his  cloud-crested  crags, 
And  the  caverns  resound  with  the  pantings  of  stags — 
Where  the  brow  of  the  mountain  is  purple  with  heath, 
And  the  mighty  Atlantic  rolls  proudly  beneath, 

With  the  foam  of  its  waves  like  the  snowy  fenane — 

Oh ! that  is  the  region  of  wild  Darrynane ! 

Oh ! fair  are  the  islets  of  tranquil  Glengariff, 

And  wild  are  the  sacred  recesses  of  Scariff — 

And  beauty,  and  wildness,  and  grandeur,  commingle 
By  Bantry’s  broad  bosom,  and  wave-wasted  Dingle ; 
But  wild  as  the  wildest,  and  fair  as  the  fairest, 

And  lit  by  a lustre  that  thou  alone  wearest— 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  157 


And  dear  to  the  eye  and  the  free  heart  of  man 
Are  the  mountains  and  valleys  of  wild  Darrynane ! 

And  who  is  the  Chief  of  this  lordly  domain? 

Does  a slave  hold  the  land  where  a monarch  might 
reign  ? 

Oh ! no,  by  St.  Finbar,  nor  cowards,  nor  slaves, 

Could  live  in  the  sound  of  these  free,  dashing  waves ! 
A Chieftain,  the  greatest  the  world  has  e’er  known — 
Laurel  his  coronet — true  hearts  his  throne — 
Knowledge  his  sceptre — a Nation  his  clan — 
O’Connell,  the  Chieftain  of  proud  Darrynane ! 

A thousand  bright  streams  on  the  mountains  awake, 
Whose  waters  unite  in  O’Donoghue’s  Kake — 

Streams  of  Glanflesk  and  the  dark  Gishadine 
Filling  the  heart  of  that  valley  divine! 

Then  rushing  in  one  mighty  artery  down 
To  the  limitless  ocean  by  murmuring  Lowne ! 

Thus  nature  unfolds  in  her  mystical  plan 
A type  of  the  Chieftain  of  wild  Darrynane! 

In  him  ev’ry  pulse  of  our  bosoms  unite — 

Our  hatred  of  wrong  and  our  worship  of  right — 

The  hopes  that  we  cherish,  the  ills  we  deplore, 

All  centre  within  his  heart’s  inmost  core, 

Which  gathered  in  one  mighty  current,  are  flung 
To  the  ends  of  the  earth  from  his  thunder-toned 
tongue ! 

Till  the  Indian  looks  up,  and  the  valiant  Afghan 
Draws  his  sword  at  the  echo  from  far  Darrynane ! 

But  here  he  is  only  the  friend  and  the  father, 

Who  from  children’s  sweet  lips  truest  wisdom  can 
gather, 

And  seeks  from  the  large  heart  of  Nature  to  borrow 


158  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Rest  for  the  present  and  strength  for  the  morrow ! 

Oh ! who  that  e’er  saw  him  with  children  about  him, 
And  heard  his  soft  tones  of  affection,  could  doubt  him  ? 
My  life  on  the  truth  of  the  heart  of  the  man 
That  throbs  like  the  Chieftain’s  of  wild  Darrynane ! 

Oh!  wild  Darrynane,  on  the  ocean-washed  shore, 
Shall  the  glad  song  of  mariners  echo  once  more  ? 

Shall  the  merchants,  and  minstrels,  and  maidens  of 
Spain, 

Once  again  in  their  swift  ships  come  over  the  main? 
Shall  the  soft  lute  be  heard,  and  the  gay  youths  of 
France 

Lead  our  blue-eyed  young  maidens  again  to  the  dance  ? 
Graceful  and  shy  as  thy  fawns,  Killenane, 

Are  the  mind-moulded  maidens  of  far  Darrynane ! 

Dear  land  of  the  South,  as  my  mind  wandered  o’er 
All  the  joys  I have  felt  by  the  magical  shore, 

From  those  lakes  of  enchantment  by  oak-clad  Glena 
To  the  mountainous  passes  of  bold  Iveragh ! 

Like  the  birds  which  are  lured  to  a haven  of  rest, 

By  those  rocks  far  away  on  the  ocean’s  bright  breast — 
Thus  my  thoughts  love  to  linger,  as  memory  ran 
O’er  the  mountains  and  valleys  of  wild  Darrynane! 
(1844)  — D.  F.  McCarthy . 


A man  who  has  left  his  mark  for  all  time  on  Irish 
literature  and  history,  more,  perhaps,  from  his  influence 
upon  others  than  even  from  his  own  achievements,  was 
Thomas  Davis.  Of  Welsh  ancestry,  he  was  born  in 
Ireland,  and  certainly  no  one  ever  loved  his  native 
land  with  a purer  or  nobler  affection.  When  he  died 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OR  IRELAND  159 


he  was  only  a young  man,  but  he  had  gathered  around 
him  a band  of  young  men  of  remarkable  literary  ability, 
including  Gavan  Duffy,  Dillon,  Mangan,  O’Hagan, 
Mitchell,  Dalton-Williams,  and  many  others.  They 
were  called  Young  Irelanders  in  contra-distinction  to 
the  older  followers  of  O’Connell,  from  whom  in  some 
degree  they  differed. 


THOMAS  DAVIS.* 

I walked  through  Ballinderry  in  the  Springtime, 

When  the  bud  was  on  the  tree ; 

And  I said,  in  every  fresh-ploughed  field  beholding 
The  sowers  striding  free, 

Scattering  broadcast  forth  the  corn  in  golden  plenty 
On  the  quick,  seed-clasping  soil, 

Even  such,  this  day,  among  the  fresh  stirred  hearts  of 
Erin, 

Thomas  Davis,  is  thy  toil! 

I sat  by  Ballyshannon  in  the  summer, 

And  I saw  the  salmon  leap ; 

And  I said,  as  I beheld  the  gallant  creatures 
Spring  glittering  from  the  deep, 

Through  the  spray,  and  through  the  prone  heap**, 

Striving  onward,  to  the  calm,  clear  streams  above, 
So  seekest  thou  thy  native  founts  of  freedom,  Thomas 
Davis, 

In  the  brightness  of  strength  and  love ! 

I stood  on  Derrybawn  in  the  Autumn, 

And  I heard  the  eagle  call, 

With  a clangorous  cry  of  wrath  and  lamentation 
That  filled  the  wide  mountain  hall, 

* Born  1814.  Died  1845. 


i6o  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


O'er  the  bare,  deserted  place  of  his  plundered  eyrie; 

And  I said,  as  he  screamed  and  soared, 

So  callest  thou,  thou  wrathful,  soaring,  Thomas  Davis , 
For  a nation's  rights  restored! 

And,  alas,  to  think  but  now,  and  thou  art  lying, 

Dear  Davis,  dead  at  thy  mother’s  knee; 

And  I,  no  mother  near,  on  my  own  sick  bed, 

That  face  on  earth  shall  never  see; 

I may  lie  and  try  to  feel  that  I am  dreaming  not — 

I may  lie  and  try  to  say,  “Thy  will  be  done." 

But  a hundred  such  as  I will  never  comfort  Erin 
For  the  loss  of  the  noble  son! 


Young  husbandman  of  Erin's  fruitful  seed-time, 

In  the  fresh  track  of  danger’s  plough ! 

Who  will  walk  the  heavy,  toilsome,  perilous  furrow, 
Girt  with  freedom's  seed-sheets  now? 

Who  will  banish  with  the  wholesome  crop  of  knowl- 
edge 

The  flaunting  weed  and  the  bitter  thorn, 

Now  that  thou  thyself  art  but  a seed  for  hopeful  plant- 
ing 

Against  the  resurrection  morn? 


Young  salmon  of  the  flood-tide  of  freedom 
That  swells  round  Erin's  shore! 

Thou  wilt  leap  against  their  loud  oppressive  torrent 
Of  bigotry  and  hate  no  more; 

Drawn  downward  by  their  prone  material  instinct, 

Let  them  thunder  on  their  rocks  and  foam — 

Thou  hast  leapt,  aspiring  soul,  to  founts  beyond  their 
raging, 

Where  troubled  waters  never  come ! 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  161 


But  I grieve  not,  eagle  of  the  empty  eyrie, 

That  thy  wrathful  cry  is  still ; 

And  that  the  songs  alone  of  peaceful  mourners 
Are  heard  today  on  Erin’s  hill; 

Better  far,  if  brothers’  war  be  destined  for  us 
(God  avert  that  horrid  day,  I pray!) 

That  ere  our  hands  be  stained  with  slaughter  fratricidal 
Thy  warm  heart  should  be  cold  in  clay. 

But  my  trust  is  strong  in  God,  who  made  us  brothers, 
That  He  will  not  suffer  those  right  hands 
Which  thou  hast  joined  in  holier  rites  than  wedlock 
To  draw  opposing  brands. 

Oh,  many  a tuneful  tongue  that  thou  mad’st  vocal 
Would  lie  cold  and  silent  then ; 

And  songless  long  once  more  should  often-widowed 
Erin 

Mourn  the  loss  of  her  brave  young  men. 

Oh,  brave  young  men,  my  love,  my  pride,  my  promise, 
’Tis  on  you  my  hopes  are  set, 

In  manliness,  in  kindliness,  in  justice, 

To  make  Erin  a nation  yet; 

Self-respecting,  self-relying,  self-advancing, 

In  union  or  in  severance,  free  and  strong — 

And  if  God  grant  this,  then,  under  God,  to  Thomas 
Davis , 

Let  the  greater  praise  belong. 

— Samuel  Ferguson. 


Theobald  Mathew,  the  Apostle  of  Temperance,  as 
he  is  called,  was  born  at  Thomastown,  near  Kilkenny, 
ioth  of  October,  1790.  He  early  determined  to  become 
a priest,  and  after  some  years  spent  at  Maynooth  Col- 


162  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


lege,  entered  the  Capuchin  Order.  He  was  a man  of 
great  zeal  and  piety,  and  from  the  moment  when  he 
took  up  the  temperance  cause  at  the  request  of  William 
Martin,  of  Cork,  he  never  ceased  to  carry  on  the 
crusade  against  intoxicants  ’till  his  death.  His  success 
was  phenomenal,  not  merely  in  Ireland,  but  in  England 
and  Scotland.  He  even  came  to  America  and  made  a 
tour  through  the  country  that  was  productive  of  much 
good.  He  died  at  Queenstown  on  the  8th  of  December, 
1856,  and  was  buried  at  Cork. 

FATHER  MATHEW.* 

(To  a painter  about  to  commence  a picture  illustrating 
the  labours  of  Father  Mathew.) 

Seize  thy  pencil,  child  of  art! 

Fame  and  fortune  brighten  o’er  thee; 

Great  thy  hand  and  great  thy  heart, 

If  well  thou  dost  the  work  before  thee! 

’Tis  not  thine  to  round  the  shield, 

Or  point  the  sabre,  black  or  gory ; 

’Tis  not  thine  to  spread  the  field, 

Where  crime  is  crown’d — where  guilt  is  glory. 

Child  of  art!  to  thee  is  given 
To  paint,  in  colours  all  unclouded, 

Breakings  of  a radiant  heaven 
O’er  an  isle  in  darkness  shrouded ! 

But  to  paint  them  true  and  well, 

Every  ray  we  see  them  shedding 

In  its  very  light  must  tell 

What  a gloom  before  was  spreading. 

* Born  1790.  Died  1856. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  163 


Can’st  thou  picture  dried-up  tears — 

Eyes  that  wept  no  longer  weeping — 

Faithful  woman’s  wrongs  and  fears, 

Lonely,  nightly  vigils  keeping — 

Listening  ev’ry  footfall  nigh — 

Hoping  him  she  loves  returning? 

Can’st  thou,  then,  depict  her  joy, 

That  we  may  know  the  change  from  mourn- 
ing? 

Paint  in  colours  strong,  but  mild, 

Our  isle's  Redeemer  and  Director — 

Can’st  thou  paint  the  man  a child, 

Yet  shadow  forth  the  mighty  Victor? 

Let  his  path  a rainbow  span, 

Every  hue  and  colour  blending — 

Beaming  “peace  and  love”  to  man, 

And  alike  o’er  all  extending ! 

Can’st  thou  paint  a land  made  free — 

From  its  sleep  of  bondage  woken — 

Yet,  withal,  that  we  may  see 

What  ’twas  before  the  chain  was  broken  ? 
Seize  thy  pencil,  child  of  art ! 

Fame  and  fortune  brighten  o’er  thee! 

Great  thy  hand,  and  great  thy  heart, 

If  well  thou  dost  the  work  before  thee! 

— Anon. 


In  the  year  1845  a blight  destroyed  the  potato  crop 
in  Ireland,  and  as  this  was,  owing  to  conditions  over 
which  the  poor  people  had  no  control,  the  chief  article 
of  diet,  a famine  ensued  which  lasted  in  all  nearly 
three  years.  Thousands  of  people  died  of  hunger — 


1 64  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


other  thousands  of  famine  fever ; while  yet  other 
thousands  lost  their  lives  in  emigrant  ships  or  were 
cast  helpless  and  dying  upon  foreign  shores.  The 
horrors  of  the  famine  years  can  never  be  forgotten,  for 
they  have  left  upon  Ireland  a mark  that  can  never  be 
obliterated.  The  most  cruel  feature  of  the  famine  was 
the  hoarding  and  exportation  of  grain  while  the  people 
were  dying  from  hunger,  and  the  easy  indifference  of 
an  alien  government  that  long  turned  a deaf  ear  to  the 
cry  of  distress. 


THE  FAMINE  YEAR. 

Weary  men,  what  reap  ye? — “Golden  corn  for  the 
stranger.” 

What  sow  ye — “Human  corses  that  await  for  the 
Avenger.” 

Fainting  forms,  all  hunger-stricken,  what  see  you  in 
the  offing  ? 

“Stately  ships  to  bear  our  food  away,  amid  the 
stranger’s  scoffing.” 

There’s  a proud  array  of  soldiers — what  do  they  round 
your  door? 

“They  guard  our  master’s  granaries  from  the  thin 
hands  of  the  poor.” 

Pale  mothers,  wherefore  weeping? — “Would  to  God 
that  we  were  dead — 

Our  children  swoon  before  us,  and  we  cannot  give 
them  bread.” 

Little  children,  tears  are  strange  upon  your  infant 
faces. 

God  meant  you  but  to  smile  within  your  mother’s  soft 
embraces. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OE  IRELAND  165 


“Oh,  we  know  not  what  is  smiling,  and  we  know  not 
what  is  dying; 

But  we’re  hungry,  very  hungry,  and  we  cannot  stop 
our  crying; 

And  some  of  us  grow  cold  and  white — we  know  not 
what  it  means. 

But  as  they  lie  beside  us,  we  tremble  in  our  dreams.” 

There’s  a gaunt  crowd  on  the  highway — are  ye  come 
to  pray  to  man, 

With  hollow  eyes  that  cannot  weep,  and  for  words 
your  faces  wan  ? 

“No;  the  blood  is  dead  within  our  veins,  we  care  not 
now  for  life; 

Let  us  die  hid  in  the  ditches,  far  from  children  and 
from  wife; 

We  cannot  stay  to  listen  to  their  ravings,  famished 
cries — 

Bread ! Bread ! Bread ! — and  none  to  still  their  agonies. 

We  left  an  infant  playing  with  her  dead  mother’s 
hand; 

We  left  a maiden,  maddened  by  the  fever’s  scorching 
brand ; 

Better,  maiden,  thou  wert  strangled  in  thy  own  dark- 
twisted  tresses ! 

Better,  infant,  thou  wert  smothered  in  thy  mother’s 
first  caresses. 

“We  are  fainting  in  our  misery,  but  God  will  hear  our 
groan ; 

Yea,  if  fellow-men  desert  us,  He  will  hearken  from 
His  throne ! 

Accursed  are  we  in  our  own  land,  yet  we  toil  still  and 
toil; 

But  the  stranger  reaps  our  harvest — the  alien  owns 
our  soil. 


1 66  BALLAD  HISTORY  OE  IRELAND 


O,  Christ,  how  have  we  sinned,  that  on  our  native 
plains 

We  perish  houseless,  naked,  starved,  with  branded 
brow,  like  Cain's? 

Dying,  dying  wearily,  with  a torture  sure  and  slow — 

Dying  as  a dog  would  die  by  the  wayside  as  we  go. 

“One  by  one  they’re  falling  round  us,  their  pale  faces 
to  the  sky; 

We’ve  no  strength  left  to  dig  them  graves — there  let 
them  lie. 

The  wild  bird,  when  he’s  stricken,  is  mourned  by  the 
others, 

But  we,  we  die  in  Christian  land — we  die  amid  our 
brothers — 

In  the  land  which  God  has  given — like  a wild  beast  in 
his  cave. 

Without  a tear,  a prayer,  a shroud,  a coffin,  or  a grave. 

Ha!  but  think  ye  the  contortions  on  each  dead  face 
ye  see 

Shall  not  be  read  on  judgment  day  by  the  eyes  of 
Deity  ? 

“We  are  wretches,  famished,  scorned,  human  tools  to 
build  your  pride, 

But  God  will  yet  take  vengeance  for  the  souls  for 
whom  Christ  died. 

Now  is  your  hour  of  pleasure,  bask  ye  in  the  world’s 
caress ; 

But  our  whitening  bones  against  ye  will  arise  as  wit- 
nesses, 

From  the  cabins  and  the  ditches,  in  their  charred,  un- 
cofifined  masses, 

For  the  Angel  of  the  Trumpet  will  know  them  as  he 
passes. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  167 


A ghastly,  spectral  army  before  great  God,  we'll  stand 
And  arraign  ye  as  our  murderers,  O spoilers  of  our 
land!" 

— Lady  Wilde. 

The  shrine  of  a nation's  spirit  is  her  national  lan- 
guage. The  national  spirit  cannot  die  out  altogether  as 
long  as  the  language  lives.  A long  and  persistent  ef- 
fort to  destroy  the  Irish  language  has  met,  thank  God, 
at  last  its  most  serious  check,  though  some  fifty  years 
ago  it  seemed  to  be  almost  completely  successful.  The 
first  bann  was  placed  upon  the  Irish  language  so  long 
ago  as  the  14th  century,  when  the  Statute  of  Kilkenny 
forbade  its  use  by  the  Norman  Irish.  The  National 
School  System,  so  called,  aimed  at  its  complete  eradi- 
cation, and  with  it  of  the  national  spirit  and  the  Catho- 
lic faith,  and  would  have  been  largely  successful  only 
for  the  determined  opposition  of  a few  far-seeing 
clerics  and  laymen.  The  following  wail  over  the  decay 
of  the  Irish  language  was  written  some  fifty  years  ago 
by  a young  Irish  priest,  who,  were  he  living  today, 
would  change  his  threnody  into  a paean  of  joy;  for  the 
Irish  language  and  the  Irish  spirit  are  now  very  much 
alive. 

THE  CELTIC  TONGUE. 

'Tis  fading,  oh,  'tis  fading,  like  leaves  upon  the  trees! 
In  murmuring  tone  'tis  dying,  like  the  wail  upon  the 
breeze ! 

'Tis  swiftly  disappearing,  as  footprints  on  the  share 
Where  the  Barrow,  and  the  Erne,  and  Loch  Swilly's 
waters  roar — 


1 68  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Where  the  parting  sunbeam  kisses  Loch  Corrib  in  the 
West, 

And  Ocean,  like  a mother,  clasps  the  Shannon  to  her 
breast ! 

The  language  of  old  Erin,  of  her  history  and  name — 

Of  her  monarchs  and  her  heroes — her  glory  and  her 
fame — 

The  sacred  shrine  where  rested,  thro’  sunshine  and 
thro’  gloom, 

The  spirit  of  her  martyrs,  as  their  bodies  in  the  tomb ; 

The  time-wrought  shell,  where  murmur’d,  ’mid  cen- 
turies of  wrong, 

The  secret  voice  of  Freedom,  in  annals  and  in  song — 

Is  slowly,  surely  sinking,  into  silent  death  at  last, 

To  live  but  in  the  memories  of  those  who  love  the  Past. 


The  olden  tongue  is  sinking  like  a patriarch  to  rest, 

Whose  youth  beheld  the  Tyrian  on  our  Irish  coasts  a 
guest ; 

Ere  the  Roman  or  the  Saxon,  the  Norman  or  the  Dane, 

Had  first  set  foot  in  Britain,  o’er  trampled  heaps  of 
slain  ; 

Whose  manhood  saw  the  Druid  rite  at  forest  tree  and 
rock — 

And  savage  tribes  of  Britain  round  the  shrines  of 
Zernebock ; 

And  for  generations  witnessed  all  the  glories  of  the 
Gael, 

Since  our  Celtic  sires  sung  war-songs  round  the  sacred 
fires  of  Baal; 

The  tongues  that  saw  its  infancy  are  ranked  among 
the  dead, 

And  from  their  graves  have  risen  those  now  spoken  in 
their  stead. 

The  glories  of  old  Erin,  with  her  liberty  have  gone, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  169 


Yet  their  halo  linger’d  round  her,  while  the  Gaelic 
speech  liv’d  on ; 

For  ’mid  the  desert  of  her  woe,  a monument  more  vast 
Than  all  her  pillar-towers,  it  stood — that  old  Tongue 
of  the  Past ! 

’Tis  leaving,  and  forever,  the  soil  that  gave  it  birth, 
Soon,  very  soon,  its  moving  tones  shall  ne’er  be  heard 
on  earth, 

O’er  the  island  dimly  fading,  as  a circle  o’er  the  wave — 
Receding,  as  its  people  lisp  the  language  of  the  slave, 
And  with  it,  too,  seem  fading  as  sunset  into  night 
The  scattered  rays  of  liberty  that  lingered  in  its  light, 
For,  ah,  tho’  long,  with  filial  love,  it  clung  to  mother- 
land, 

And  Irishmen  were  Irish  still,  in  language,  heart  and 
hand; 

T’  install  its  Saxon  rival,  proscribed  it  soon  became, 
And  Irishmen  are  Irish  now  in  nothing  but  in  name; 
The  Saxon  chain  our  rights  and  tongues  alike  doth 
hold  in  thrall, 

Save  where  amid  the  Connaught  wilds  and  hills  of 
Donegal — 

And  by  the  shores  of  Munster,  like  the  broad  Atlantic 
blast, 

The  olden  language  lingers  yet  and  binds  us  to  the 
Past. 

Thro’  cold  neglect,  ’tis  dying,  now ; a stranger  on  our 
shore ! 

No  Tara’s  hall  re-echoes  to  its  music,  as  of  yore — 

No  Lawrence  fires  the  Celtic  clans  round  leaguered 
Athaclee — 

No  Shannon  wafts  from  Limerick’s  towers  their  war- 
songs  to  the  sea. 


170  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Ah!  magic  Tongue,  that  round  us  wove  its  spells  so 
soft  and  dear! 

Ah  ! pleasant  Tongue,  whose  murmurs  were  as  music  to 
the  ear ! 

Ah!  glorious  Tongue,  whose  accents  would  each  Celtic 
heart  enthrall ! 

Ah!  rushing  Tongue,  that  sounded  like  the  swollen 
torrent's  fall! 

The  Tongue  that  in  the  Senate  was  lightning,  flashing 
bright — 

Whose  echo  in  the  battle  was  the  thunder  in  its  might ! 

That  Tongue,  which  once  in  chieftain’s  hall  poured 
loud  the  minstrel  lay, 

As  chieftain,  serf,  or  minstrel  old  is  silent  there  today ! 

That  Tongue,  whose  shout  dismayed  the  foe  at  Kong 
and  Mullaghmast, 

Like  those  who  nobly  perished  there,  is  numbered  with 
the  Past! 

The  Celtic  Tongue  is  passing,  and  we  stand  coldly  by — 

Without  a pang  within  the  heart,  a tear  within  the 
eye — 

Without  one  pulse  for  Freedom  stirred,  one  effort 
made  to  save 

The  language  of  our  Fathers  from  dark  oblivion’s 
grave ! 

Oh,  Erin!  vain  your  efforts — your  prayers  for  Free- 
dom’s crown, 

Whilst  offered  in  the  language  of  the  foe  that  clove 
it  down; 

Be  sure  that  tyrants  ever  with  an  art  from  darkness 
sprung, 

Would  make  the  conquered  nation  slaves  alike  in  limb 
and  tongue. 

Russia’s  great  Czar  ne’er  stood  secure  o’er  Poland’s 
shatter’d  frame, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  171 


Until  he  trampled  from  her  heart  the  tongue  that  bore 
her  name ! 

Oh,  Irishmen,  be  Irish  still!  stand  for  the  dear  old 
tongue, 

Which  as  ivy  to  a ruin,  to  your  native  land  has  clung ! 

Oh,  snatch  this  relic  from  the  wreck!  the  only  and 
the  last, 

And  cherish  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  the  language  of 
the  Past! 

— Rev.  M.  Mullen. 


The  immediate  consequence  of  the  great  famine  in 
Ireland  was  a tide  of  emigration,  which,  in  a short 
time,  reduced  the  population  of  Ireland  one-half.  Some 
of  this  emigration  was  to  England  and  Scotland,  but 
the  great  outflow  was  to  the  United  States.  What  was 
Ireland’s  loss  was  this  country’s  gain;  for  in  every 
walk  of  life  the  Irish  have  made  their  mark  and  have 
won  renown  in  the  ranks  of  war,  as  well  as  in  the 
pathways  of  peace.  We  can  easily  imagine  the  fre- 
quent effort  of  prosperous  son  or  daughter  to  lure  the 
lonely  parent  from  the  old  homestead ; and  the  answer 
so  often  given  that  the  new  land  was  for  the  young 
and  the  ambitious,  but  that  the  old  and  infirm  were 
better  suited  to  the  quiet  and  prayerful  ways  of  the 
old  home. 

THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT’S  MOTHER. 

"Oh!  come,  my  mother,  come  away,  across  the  sea- 
green  water ; 

Oh,  come  with  me,  and  come  with  him,  the  husband 
of  thy  daughter; 


172  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Oh,  come  with  us,  and  come  with  them,  the  sister  and 
the  brother, 

Who,  prattling,  climb  thine  aged  knees,  and  call  thy 
daughter,  mother. 

“Oh,  come,  and  leave  this  land  of  death — this  isle  of 
desolation — 

This  speck  upon  the  sun-bright  face  of  God’s  sublime 
creation, 

Since  now  o’er  all  our  fatal  stars  the  most  malign  hath 
risen, 

When  Labour  seeks  the  Poorhouse,  and  Innocence  the 
Prison. 

“ ’Tis  true,  o’er  all  the  sun-brown  fields  the  husky 
wheat  is  bending ; 

’Tis  true,  God’s  blessed  hand  at  last  a better  time  is 
sending ; 

’Tis  true,  the  island’s  aged  face  looks  happier  and 
younger, 

But  in  the  best  of  days  we’ve  known  the  sickness  and 
the  hunger. 

“When  health  breathed  out  in  every  breeze,  too  oft 
we’ve  known  the  fever — 

Too  oft,  my  mother,  have  we  felt  the  hand  of  the  be- 
reaver ; 

Too  well  remember  many  a time  the  mournful  task  that 
brought  him, 

When  freshness  fanned  the  Summer  air,  and  cooled 
the  glow  of  Autumn. 

“But  then  the  trial,  though  severe,  still  testified  our 
patience, 

We  bowed  with  mingled  hope  and  fear  to  God’s  wise 
dispensations ; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  173 


We  felt  the  gloomiest  time  was  both  a promise  and  a 
warning, 

Just  as  the  darkest  hour  of  night  is  herald  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

“But  now  through  all  the  black  expanse  no  hopeful 
morning  breaketh — 

No  bird  of  promise  in  our  hearts,  the  gladsome  song 
awaketh ; 

No  far-off  gleams  of  good  light  up  the  hills  of  ex- 
pectation— 

Nought  but  the  gloom  that  might  precede  the  world's 
annihilation. 

“So,  mother,  turn  thine  aged  feet,  and  let  our  children 
lead  'em 

Down  to  the  ship  that  wafts  us  soon  to  plenty  and  to 
freedom ; 

Forgetting  nought  of  all  the  past,  yet  all  the  past  for- 
giving ; 

Come,  let  us  leave  the  dying  land,  and  fly  unto  the 
living. 

“They  tell  us,  they  who  read  and  think  of  Ireland's 
ancient  story, 

How  once  its  Emerald  flag  flung  out  a Sunburst's  fleet- 
ing glory ; 

Oh ! if  that  sun  will  pierce  no  more  the  dark  clouds 
that  efface  it, 

Fly  where  the  rising  Stars  of  Heaven  commingle  to 
replace  it. 

“So,  come,  my  mother,  come  away,  across  the  sea- 
green  water; 

Oh,  come  with  us,  and  come  with  him,  the  husband  of 
thy  daughter; 


174  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 

Oh,  come  with  us,  and  come  with  them,  the  sister  and 
the  brother, 

Who,  prattling,  climb  thine  aged  knees,  and  call  thy 
daughter,  mother !” 

“Ah,  go,  my  children,  go  away — obey  this  inspiration ; 

Go,  with  the  mantling  hopes  of  health  and  youthful 
expectation  ; 

Go,  clear  the  forests,  climb  the  hills,  and  plough  the 
expectant  prairies ; 

Go,  in  the  sacred  name  of  God,  and  the  Blessed  Virgin 
Mary's. 

“But  though  I feel  how  sharp  the  pang  from  thee  and 
thine  to  sever, 

’ To  look  upon  these  darling  ones  the  last  time  and  for- 
ever; 

Yet  in  this  sad  and  dark  old  land,  by  desolation 
haunted, 

My  heart  has  struck  its  roots  too  deep  ever  to  be  trans- 
planted. 

“A  thousand  fibres  still  have  life,  although  the  trunk 
is  dying — 

They  twine  around  the  yet  green  grave  where  thy 
father's  bones  are  lying; 

Ah!  from  that  sad  and  sweet  embrace,  no  soil  on 
earth  can  loose  'em, 

Though  golden  harvests  gleam  on  its  breast,  and  golden 
sands  in  its  bosom. 

“Others  are  twined  around  the  stone,  where  ivy  blos- 
soms smother 

The  crumbling  lines  that  trace  thy  names,  my  father 
and  my  mother ; 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  175 


God’s  blessing  be  upon  our  souls — God  grant,  my 
old  heart  prayeth, 

Their  names  be  written  in  the  Book  whose  writing 
ne’er  decayeth. 

“Alas ! my  prayers  would  never  warm  within  those 
great  cold  buildings, 

Those  grand  cathedral  churches,  with  their  marbles 
and  their  gildings ; 

Far  fitter  than  the  proudest  dome  that  would  hang  in 
splendour  o’er  me. 

Is  the  simple  chapel’s  white-washed  wall,  where  my 
people  knelt  before  me. 

“No  doubt  it  is  a glorious  land  to  which  you  now  are 
going, 

Like  that  which  God  bestowed  of  old,  with  milk  and 
honey  flowing  ; 

But  where  are  the  blessed  saints  of  God,  whose  lives 
of  His  law  remind  me, 

Like  Patrick,  Brigid,  and  Columbkille,  in  the  land  I’d 
leave  behind  me  ? 

“So  leave  me  here,  my  children,  with  my  old  ways  and 
notions ; 

Leave  me  here  in  peace,  with  my  memories  and  de- 
votions ; 

Leave  me  in  sight  of  your  father’s  grave,  and  as  the 
heavens  allied  us. 

Let  not,  since  we  were  joined  in  life,  even  the  grave 
divide  us. 

“There’s  not  a week  but  I can  hear  how  you  prosper 
better  and  better, 

For  the  mighy  fireships  o’er  the  sea  will  bring  the  ex- 
pected letter; 


1 76  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And  if  I need  aught  for  my  simple  wants,  my  food  or 
my  winter  firing, 

Thou’lt  gladly  spare  from  thy  growing  store  a little 
for  my  requiring. 


“Remember,  with  a pitying  love,  the  hapless  land  that 
bore  you; 

At  every  festal  season  be  its  gentle  form  before  you ; 

When  the  Christmas  candle  is  lighted,  and  the  holly 
and  ivy  glisten, 

Let  your  eye  look  back  for  a vanished  face — for  a 
voice  that  is  silent,  listen ! 

“So  go,  my  children,  go  away — obey  this  inspiration; 

Go,  with  the  mantling  hopes  of  health  and  youthful 
expectation. 

Go,  clear  the  forests,  climb  the  hills,  and  plough  the 
expectant  prairies ; 

Go,  in  the  sacred  name  of  God,  and  the  Blessed  Virgin 
Mary's.” 

— D.  F.  McCarthy, 


The  great  factor  in  the  preservation  of  Ireland’s 
faith,  after  the  grace  of  God  was,  of  course,  the  Irish 
priest.  Banned  and  hunted  as  the  wolf,  he  was  ever 
steadfast  and  faithful.  He  loved  his  suffering  people 
with  a father’s  love,  and  their  love  for  him  in  turn 
and  their  faith  in  him  knew  no  bounds.  This  is  the 
note  that  runs  all  through  the  following  verses,  which 
have  attracted  the  notice  and  approval  of  such  critics 
as  Jeffreys,  the  first  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OE  IRELAND  177 


The  words  “Soggarth  Aroon"  mean  that  the  priest 
is  the  secret  treasure  of  the  Irish  heart. 

SOGGARTH  AROON. 

Am  I the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 

While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Her  commands  to  fulfill 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 

Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Yet  be  not  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you — 

Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 

Och,  out  of  fear  to  you ! 

Soggarth  aroon ! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

When  the  could  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 


178  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Came  to  my  cabin  door, 

And,  on  my  earthen-flure, 

Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon — 

And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 

Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 

At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

And  when  my  heart  was  dim, 

Gave  while  his  eye  did  brim ; 

What  should  I give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Och!  you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon! 

And  for  this  I was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon; 

In  love  they’ll  never  shake, 

When  for  ould  Ireland’s  sake 
We  a true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon! 

— John  Banim. 


Notwithstanding  all  the  power  of  England  for  three 
hundred  years  and  her  wealth  and  wiles  in  the  last 
century,  the  faith  of  Ireland  is  still  as  fresh  and  pure 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  179 


as  when  the  Irish  received  it  from  the  lips  of  St.  Pat- 
rick. The  evangel  of  the  sword  and  that  of  the  bribe 
did,  no  doubt,  influence  from  time  to  time  a few  timid 
or  mercenary  souls ; but  the  great  heart  of  the  Irish 
people  always  beat  true  to  God  and  His  faith.  This  is 
the  great  glory  of  the  Irish  people  and  is  put  into 
beautiful  words  in  the  following  poem : 

THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  LISMORE. 

Old  Church,  thou  still  art  Catholic! — e'en  dream  they 
as  they  may 

That  the  new  rites  and  worship  have  swept  the  old 
away; 

There  is  no  form  of  beauty  raised  by  nature  or  by  art 
That  preaches  not  God's  saving  truths  to  man's  adoring 
heart ! 

In*  vain  they  tore  the  altar  down;  in  vain  they  flung 
aside 

The  mournful  emblem  of  the  death  which  our  sweet 
Saviour  died; 

In  vain  they  left  no  single  trace  of  saint  or  angel  here — 
Still  angel  spirits  haunt  the  ground,  and  to  the  soul 
appear. 

I marvel  how,  in  scenes  like  these,  so  coldly  they  can 
pray, 

Nor  hold  sweet  commune  with  the  dead  who  once  knelt 
down  as  they; 

Yet  not  as  they,  in  sad  mistrust  or  sceptic  doubt — for, 
oh, 

They  looked  in  hope  to  the  blessed  saints,  these  dead  of 
long  ago. 


i8o  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


And,  then,  the  church  yard,  soft  and  calm,  spread  out 
beyond  the  scene, 

With  sunshine  warm  and  soothing  shade  and  trees  up- 
on  its  green; 

Ah!  though  their  cruel  Church  forbid,  are  there  no 
hearts  will  pray 

For  the  poor  souls  that  trembling  left  that  cold  and 
speechless  clay? 


My  God ! I am  a Catholic ! I grew  into  the  ways 

Of  my  dear  Church  since  first  my  voice  could  lisp  a 
word  of  praise; 

But  oft  I think,  though  my  first  youth  were  taught  and 
trained  awrong, 

I still  had  learnt  the  one  true  faith  from  nature  and 
from  song ! 


For  still,  whenever  dear  friends  die,  it  is  such  joy  to 
know 

They  are  not  all  beyond  the  care  that  healed  their 
wounds  below; 

That  we  can  pray  them  into  peace,  and  speed  them  to 
the  shore 

Where  clouds  and  cares  and  thorny  griefs  shall  vex 
their  hearts  no  more. 


And  the  sweet  saints,  so  meek  below,  so  merciful 
above ; 

And  the  pure  angels,  watching  still  with  such  untiring 
love. 

And  the  kind  Virgin,  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  all  her 
mother’s  care, 

Who  prays  for  earth,  because  she  knows  what  break- 
ing hearts  are  there. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  181 


Oh,  let  us  lose  no  single  link  that  our  dear  Church  has 
bound, 

To  keep  our  hearts  more  close  to  heaven,  on  earth’s  un- 
genial  ground; 

But  trust  in  saint  and  martyr  yet,  and  o’er  their  hal- 
lowed clay, 

Long  after  we  have  ceased  to  weep,  kneel,  faithful, 
down  to  pray. 

So  shall  the  land  for  us  be  still  the  Sainted  Isle  of 
old, 

Where  hymn  and  incense  rise  to  Heaven,  and  holy 
beads  are  told ; 

And  even  the  ground  they  tore  from  God,  in  years  of 
crime  and  woe, 

Instinctive  with  His  truth  and  love,  shall  breathe  of 
long  ago! 

— Ellen  M.  Downing. 


After  the  famine  years  in  the  middle  of  the  last  cen- 
tury an  effort  was  made  to  win  a tenant-right  which 
should  establish  the  Irish  tenant  on  his  farm  and  pre- 
vent him  from  eviction  at  the  mere  will  of  a landlord ; 
and  thereby  to  stop  the  emigration  that  was  draining 
away  the  life-blood  of  a nation.  The  sentiment  of 
the  following  ballad  is  as  true  now  as  it  was  then ; and 
though  in  many  ways  conditions  are  better  in  Ireland 
in  our  day,  they  are  not  by  any  means  satisfactory.  It 
seems  to  me  then  that  in  view  of  the  effort  that  is 
now  making  to  stop  the  flow  of  emigration  altogether, 
this  ballad  is  peculiarly  fitting  to  close  this  brief  col- 


182  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


lection  of  ballads  relating  to  the  chequered  history  of 
Ireland : 


THE  ANCIENT  RACE. 

What  shall  become  of  the  ancient  race, 

The  noble  Keltic  island  race? 

Like  cloud  on  cloud  o'er  the  azure  sky, 

When  winter  storms  are  loud  and  high, 

Their  dark  ships  shadow  the  ocean's  face — 
What  shall  become  of  the  Keltic  race? 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race — 

The  poor,  unfriended,  faithful  race? 

Where  ploughman's  song  made  the  hamlet  ring, 
The  hawk  and  the  owlet  flap  their  wing; 

The  village  homes,  oh,  who  can  trace — 

God  of  our  persecuted  race! 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 

Is  treason's  stigma  on  their  face? 

Be  they  cowards  or  traitors?  Go — 

Ask  the  shade  of  England’s  foe; 

See  the  gems  her  crown  that  grace; 

They  tell  a tale  of  the  ancient  race. 

They  tell  a tale  of  the  ancient  race — 

Of  matchless  deeds  in  danger's  face; 

They  speak  of  Britain’s  glory  fed 
With  blood  of  Kelts,  right  bravely  shed; 

Of  India's  spoil  and  Frank’s  disgrace — 

Such  tale  they  tell  of  the  ancient  race. 

Then  why  cast  out  the  ancient  race? 

Grim  want  dwelt  with  the  ancient  race, 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  183 


And  hell-born  laws,  with  prison  jaws; 

And  greedy  Lords,  with  tiger  maws, 

Have  swallowed — swallow  still  apace — 
The  limbs  and  blood  of  the  ancient  race. 

Will  no  one  shield  the  ancient  race? 

They  fly  their  father’s  burial  place ; 

The  proud  lords  with  the  heavy  purse, 
Their  father’s  shame,  their  people’s  curse — 
Demons  in  heart,  nobles  in  face — 

They  dig  a grave  for  the  ancient  race! 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race. 

Shall  all  forsake  their  dear  birthplace 
Without  one  struggle  strong  to  keep 
The  old  soil  where  their  fathers  sleep? 

The  dearest  land  on  earth’s  wide  space— 
Why  leave  it  so,  O ancient  race? 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race? 

Light  up  one  hope  for  the  ancient  race; 
Oh,  priest  of  God — Soggarth  Aroon! 

Lead  but  the  way,  we’ll  go  full  soon; 

Is  there  a danger  we  will  not  face, 

To  keep  old  homes  for  the  Irish  race? 

They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race — 

They  must  not  go,  the  ancient  race ! 

Come,  gallant  Kelts,  and  take  your  stand — 
And  form  a league  to  save  the  land; 

The  land  of  faith,  the  land  of  grace, 

The  land  of  Erin’s  ancient  race! 

They  must  not  go,  the  ancient  race! 

They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race ! 


i84  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


The  cry  swells  loud  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  emerald  vale  to  mountain  hoar, 

From  altar  high  to  market  place — 

“THEY  SHALL  NOT  GO,  the  ancient  race! 

— Rev.  M.  F.  Tormey. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  185 


APPENDIX  I. 


The  writers  whose  ballads  appear  in  this  collection 
are  only  a few  of  the  great  body  of  Irish  poets  who 
have  made  a name  in  this  walk  of  literature.  They 
are  almost  all  of  a past  generation,  but  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  no  body  of  names  stand  higher  as  representa- 
tives of  what  Ireland  has  done  in  the  region  of  ballad 
poetry.  As  long  as  the  English  language  and  litera- 
ture shall  last,  so  long  shall  their  names  be  remem- 
bered as  writers  of  thrilling  verse. 

Thomas  Davis 

Thomas  Davis  was  born  at  Mallow,  County  Cork, 
in  1814;  studied  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin;  was  called 
to  the  bar  in  1838 ; helped  to  found  The  Nation,  a news- 
paper; died  of  scarlet  fever,  1845.  He  was  the  author 
of  essays,  poems  and  “A  History  of  the  Patriot  Parlia- 
ment of  Ireland.”  He  was  the  leader  of  the  Young 
Ireland  Party. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson 

Was  born  at  Belfast,  March  10,  1810;  studied  law 
and  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1838;  gave  up  the  practice 
of  his  profession  in  1867,  an<3  became  Deputy  Keeper 
of  the  Records  of  Ireland.  The  author  of  much  poetry 
and  prose  on  Irish  subjects,  and  always  of  fine  quality. 
Died  August  9,  1886, 


1 86  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


James  Clarence  Mangan 

This,  perhaps  the  greatest  of  Irish  poets,  was  born 
in  Dublin,  May  I,  1803;  he  had  great  linguistic 
talent  which  he  found  means  to  cultivate  and  which 
helped  him  much  in  his  literary  career.  He  became  the 
victim  of  hurtful  habits  and  led  a precarious  and  miser- 
able life.  He  died  in  1849.  His  poems  and  essays 
have  been  collected  and  published  twice  since  his  death. 
The  “Anthologia  Germanica”  was  his  only  work  that 
appeared  in  collected  form  during  his  lifetime. 

William  Drennan 

A United  Irishman,  born  in  Belfast,  May  23,  1754; 
died  February  5,  1820;  the  author  of  several  notable 
pieces. 

Thomas  Moore 

Thomas  Moore,  usually  accounted  the  greatest  of 
Ireland’s  poets,  was  born  in  Dublin,  1779;  educated  at 
a grammar  school,  and  afterwards  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  He  early  developed  a talent  for  poetry.  His 
best  work  is  probably  contained  in  his  "‘Irish  Melodies/' 
though  “Lalla  Rookh”  is  longer  and  more  ambitious. 
He  was  the  author  of  many  works  in  prose  and  poetry. 
He  died  in  England,  1852. 

John  Banim 

Born  in  Kilkenny,  April  3,  1798;  was  a novelist 
rather  than  a poet,  though  he  is  known  in  both  capa- 
cities. His  “Soggarth  Aroon”  was  much  admired. 
He  died  in  1842. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  187 


John  O’Hagan 

One  of  the  younger  men  of  The  Nation  and  a man 
who  made  his  mark  as  lawyer  and  litterateur,  was  born 
at  Newry,  1822;  died  in  1890.  He  wrote  several 
spirited  Irish  ballads. 

Lady  Wilde 

Perhaps  better  known  by  her  pen  name  of  “Sper- 
anza,”  was  the  wife  of  Sir  William  Wilde,  a famous 
oculist  and  antiquarian.  She  was  one  of  the  most 
noted  contributors  to  The  Nation  in  its  best  days.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Jane  Francisca  Elgee. 

Charles  Gavan  Duffy 

Was  born  in  Monaghan  in  1816.  He  early  de- 
veloped a taste  for  literary  work  and  became  editor  of 
a paper  in  Belfast.  In  conjunction  with  Thomas 
Davis  and  John  B.  Dillon,  he  started  The  Nation,  and 
was  its  first  editor.  After  a wearisome  trial  of  Irish 
politics  he  emigrated  to  Australia  and  ultimately  be- 
came one  of  the  greatest  forces  in  the  politics  of  Victoria. 
He  has  written  several  very  interesting  books  bearing 
on  the  Irish  history  of  his  own  day,  and  produced  many 
fine  ballads.  He  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life  in 
Europe  and  died  recently  at  a very  advanced  age. 

Ellen  Mary  Downing 

Was  one  of  the  women  writers  of  The  Nation.  Her 
pen  name  was  “Mary.”  She  became  an  Ursuline  nun 
and  died  January  27,  1869. 


1 88  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


T.  D’Arcy  M’Gee 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  young  Irishmen  of  his 
day.  Poet,  orator,  historian ; was  born  at  Carlingford, 
Ireland,  April  13,  1825;  died  the  victim  of  an  assassin 
in  Ottawa,  Canada,  April  7,  1868. 

D.  F.  McCarthy 

Was  born  in  Dublin  in  the  year  1820,  and  died  in 
1882.  He  was  a very  pleasing  writer  of  verse  on  Irish 
subjects,  and  also  translated  much  from  the  Spanish. 

Charles  J.  Kickham 

Best  known  as  a Fenian,  and  author  of  “Knock- 
nagow,”  a novel  descriptive  of  Irish  life  in  Tipperary, 
also  wrote  some  poems  which  have  attracted  attention. 

Robert  Dwyer  Joyce 

Was  a physician  and  poet.  His  works  are  all  con- 
cerned in  some  way  with  Ireland  and  her  history.  His 
best  known  poem,  “Deirdre,”  is  concerned  with  the 
fate  of  the  children  of  Usnach.  He  spent  many  years 
of  his  life  in  Boston,  Mass.,  but  was  born  and  died  in 
Ireland.  His  death  occurred  October  23,  1883,  in  the 
fifty-third  year  of  his  age. 

T.  D.  Sullivan 

Irish  editor  and  Member  of  Parliament;  is  still  liv- 
ing. He  is  a very  tuneful  poet  and  has  done  good 
work  for  Ireland.  His  brother,  A.  M.  Sullivan,  was, 
perhaps,  more  widely  known. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  189 


Aubrey  De  Vere 

Was  born  in  Limerick  in  1814;  educated  at  Trinity 
College.  He  became  a Catholic  early  in  life  and  his 
faith  tinctures  all  his  writings.  He  was  a great  friend 
of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  of  the  poet  Wordsworth.  He 
was  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  our  day,  but,  like  his 
model  Wordsworth,  he  does  not  seem  to  be  appreciated 
as  he  deserves.  He  died  in  1902. 

Edward  Walsh 

Was  born  in  Londonderry,  in  1805.  He  taught 
school  on  Spike  Island  at  the  convict  station  and  after- 
wards in  the  Cork  poorhouse.  He  was  the  author  of 
many  original  and  translated  poems.  He  died  August 
6,  1850. 

Rev.  M.  J.  Tormey 

Was  a priest  of  the  Diocese  of  Meath,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished as  a theologian  and  orator  as  well  as  a poet. 
He  was  born  in  1820  and  died  in  1893. 

Carroll  Malone 

Was  the  pen  name  of  James  McBurney,  who  was 
born  in  County  Down ; emigrated  to  America  and  died 
there  in  1892. 

William  Pembroke  Mulchinock 

Was  born  in  Tralee,  County  Kerry;  seems  to  have 
taken  part  in  the  rising  of  1848,  and  afterwards  emi- 
grated to  America. 


190  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


APPENDIX  II. 


Short  List  of  Books  Bearing  on  Irish  History : 

HISTORY 

History  of  Ireland  Martin  Haverty 

History  of  Ireland Geoffry  Keating 

History  of  Ireland  McGeoghegan 

History  of  Ireland  John  Mitchell 

History  of  Ireland T.  D.  McGee 

History  of  Ireland  Walpole 

History  of  Ireland Rev.  E.  A.  D’Alton 

History  of  Ireland  Joyce 

History  of  Ireland J.  H.  McCarthy 

Story  of  Ireland  A.  M.  Sullivan 

Story  of  Ireland  Emily  Lawless 

Social  History  of  Ireland Joyce 

Ecclesiastical  History  of  Ireland Lanigan 

Ecclesiastical  History  of  Ireland  Brennan 

Ecclesiastical  History  of  Ireland Malone 

Ecclesiastical  History  of  Ireland  Walsh 

Confederation  of  Kilkenny Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan 

The  Flight  of  the  Earls Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan 

The  Cromwellian  Settlement  of  Ireland.  . .Prendergast 

Cromwell  in  Ireland Rev.  D.  Murphy 

Our  Martyrs Rev.  D.  Murphy 

Irish  History  of  the  18th  Century W.  H.  Lecky 

The  English  in  Ireland J.  A.  Froude 

The  Patriot  Parliament  of  Ireland Thomas  Davis 

Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Irish  Nation.  . . . Sir.  J.  Barrington 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  191 


Early  Christian  Art  in  Ireland Stokes 

The  Ancient  Irish  Church Salmon 

The  Monks  of  the  West Montalembert 

Ireland  Under  English  Rule Perraud 

Persecution  of  Irish  Catholics , . . . . Moran 

Compendium  of  Irish  Biography Webb 

Sufferings  for  the  Catholic  Faith  in  Ireland  M.  O'Reilly 

A Literary  History  of  Ireland Douglas  Hyde 

Irish  Schools  and  Scholars Archbishop  Healy 

Annals,  Anecdotes  and  Traditions  of  the  Irish  Par- 
liaments   O’Flannigan 

Irish  Brigade  in  the  Service  of  France.  . O'Callaghan 

Ireland  and  Her  Agitators O'Neill  Daunt 

Ireland  Under  English  Rule Emmet 

The  Volunteers McNevin 

Young  Ireland C.  Gavan  Duffy 

New  Ireland A.  M.  Sullivan 

Ireland  Since  the  Union J.  H.  McCarthy 

The  History  of  Our  Own  Times.  . . . Justin  McCarthy 

Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Irish  Nation Barrington 

Sketches  of  His  Own  Times Barrington 

The  Sham  Squire  Fitzpatrick 

The  Last  Conquest  of  Ireland  (Perhaps)  . . J.  Mitchell 

The  Parnell  Movement T.  P.  O'Connor 

The  Life  of  St.  Patrick  Archbishop  Healy 

The  Life  of  St.  Patrick  Morris 

The  Life  of  St.  Patrick Kinane 

The  Life  of  St.  Patrick Fleming 

The  Life  of  St.  Patrick Cusack 

Lives  of  Irish  Saints  O’Hanlon 


192  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Lives  of  United  Irishmen Robert  R.  Madden 

The  Life  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald T.  Moore 

Life  of  O'Connell Luby 

Life  of  O'Connell Cusack 

Life  of  John  Mitchell William  Dillon 

Life  of  Thomas  Davis C.  G.  Duffy 

Life  of  Hugh  O'Neill John  Mitchell 

Life  of  Owen  Roe J.  F.  Taylor 

The  Irish  Nation Thomas  Wills,  D.  D. 

The  Story  of  an  Irishman J.  McCarthy 

My  Recollections William  O'Brien 

Catholicity  and  Progress  in  Ireland O'Riordan 

Ireland,  Industrial  and  Agricultural Coyne 

Irish  Race  in  the  Past  and  Present.  . Thebaud 

Leaders  of  Public  Opinion Lecky 

POETRY . 

Legends  of  St.  Patrick De  Vere 

Innisfail De  Vere 

The  Foray  of  Queen  Meave De  Vere 

Deirdre R.  D.  Joyce 

Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland Hayes 

Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland C.  G.  Duffy 

Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland  D.  F.  McCarthy 

The  New  Spirit  of  the  Nation McDermott 

The  Poetry  and  Song  of  Ireland* . . . . J.  Boyle  O'Reilly 

A Treasury  of  Irish  Poetry Brooke  & Rolleston 

The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn Ethna  Carbery 


The  Three  Sorrows  of  Story  Telling.  .Douglas  Hyde 

* Contains  the  chief  poems  of  many  Irish  poets,  in- 
cluding Moore,  Davis,  Ferguson,  McCarthy,  Mangan 
and  M'Gee. 


BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  193 


FICTION. 

The  Invasion Gerald  Griffin 

The  Colleen  Bawn Gerald  Griffin 

Tales  of  a Jury  Room Gerald  Griffin 

Castle  Rackrent Maria  Edgeworth 

The  Boyne  Water Banirn 

Father  Connell Banim 

The  White  Horse  of  the  Peppers Banim 

The  Confederate  Chieftains Sadlier 

The  Chances  of  War Findlay 

Marcella  Grace Rosa  Mulholland 

The  Wild  Birds  of  Killeevy Rosa  Mulholland 

Knocknagow C.  J.  Kickham 

Hurrish Emily  Lawless 

The  Two  Chiefs  of  Dunboy J.  A.  Froude 

In  the  Celtic  Past Ethna  Carbery 

Old  Celtic  Romances W.  P.  Joyce 

Castle  Daly Keary 

When  We  Were  Boys W.  O'Brien 

A Queen  of  Men W.  O'Brien 

Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald M.  McD.  Bodkin 

Gods  and  Fighting  Men Lady  Gregory 

Cuchullain  of  Murthemne  Lady  Gregory 

Poets  and  Dreamers Lady  Gregory 

Wild  Irish  Girl Lady  Morgan 

Florence  McCarthy Lady  Morgan 

Mononia  Justin  McCarthy 

The  Wizard's  Knot W.  Barry 

My  New  Curate Rev.  P.  Sheehan 

Luke  Delmege Rev  P.  Sheehan 


194  BALLAD  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND 


Glenanaar  Rev.  P.  Sheehan 

Geoffrey  Austin,  Student Rev.  P.  Sheehan 

Triumph  of  Failure Rev.  P.  Sheehan 

Valentine  McCluschy William  Carleton 

The  Poor  Scholar William  Carleton 

The  Hibernian  Nights'  Entertainment Ferguson 


Date  Due 

JUl  9'37 

5 

/ / . 

:spfr\ 
/ ( 

t 1 

MAR  2 

i 1993 

• V 

* i 

<f) 

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